The Siege
by chezchuckles
Summary: Castle has a plan to take down that wall. After three days, love will rise again. SPOILERS: season 4 premiere.  by Sandiane Carter and chezchuckles. COMPLETE
1. Chapter 1

**The Siege**

by **Sandiane Carter** and **chezchuckles**

* * *

><p>Kate Beckett leans against the concrete outside the bookstore's entrance. She's been to enough of these to know the drill at a booksigning, and even though she tries to suppress it, she gets a fangirl's thrill at knowing he's there, her favorite author.<p>

Okay, so she can admit to herself that it's not entirely because she's a fan. There's more there.

This is why she's here. Because she has admitted it to herself, sometime in the three months in which she tried to ignore it, tried to push it away, tried to tell herself that *last* summer had inured her to him.

It hasn't. It didn't. She's still hopelessly-

But that's not going to come out of her mouth. Not today. Not any time soon.

When Ryan and Esposito told her how doggedly Castle had worked on the case, how he had been at the precinct until Gates kicked him out, how he had smuggled all the pertinent information about the sniper back home and continued to work on it-

After that, she realized she's got to face it. Face him. And explain. Somehow. Without really saying the thing she can't say yet, the thing she won't say yet, because it would be unfair to say it and then ask him to do nothing.

Not yet. Not just yet.

But she is going to explain. She will have to be careful about her words, choose the precise ones, get it exactly right, no room for misunderstanding.

Kate clutches his book to her chest and keeps her head down, running through lines as she waits. Honestly, she didn't expect Castle to be this angry with her, but she recognizes that the source of his anger is really his deeply-rooted. . .

Feelings. (Love.) For her.

Kate clutches the book harder; the bottom edge digs into her hipbones.

Yes. Okay. She takes a deep breath and eases up a little, controls her heart rate through sheer force of will, locks a steel clamp around the struggling, panicked thing in her chest.

It's okay. It wasn't okay the day he walked into ICU with gorgeous flowers and entirely too-needy eyes. It wasn't okay when the memory of his confession rolled over her so suddenly that her hand under Josh's clamped down too tight on the bed railing. It wasn't okay when she had to look into those same blue, beseeching, grief-haunted eyes and somehow not see that face against the too-blue sky, the agony and desperation and pleading.

It wasn't okay then. But it's okay now.

That's what three months of solitude did for her. Castle was only part of the biggest problem, a thread running through every issue her heart balked at. No. Not a thread, nothing so thin and meager and fine. He was a chain, a link by link enslavement to the core of grief and vengeance and righteous indignation she has always carried around inside of her.

How did he get there?

Kate sighs and chews on the inside of her cheek, tilts her head back against the brick.

No point in questioning it any longer. She's let go of the _how_ and moved on to the _what next_. There's not any reason to go back. She knows what she needs to do, and she knows exactly what she wants.

Because she's sorted. Her heart is sorted.

The only thing that remains to be seen is if Richard Castle will wait.

If he will wait for her.

* * *

><p>Why is it that nothing seems right when she's not around?<p>

Castle knows the answer to that question, but three months of silence makes him wish he doesn't, makes him wish it were different. Three months of a Kate Beckett vacuum requires more effort, more energy than he can spare; he can't fake it any more.

He just can't.

Castle swallows back the knot that rises in his throat whenever he dwells too long on her, rubs at his eyes. The line has already formed just past the barrier; usually, Castle would be making eyes at the women, doing that cutesy four-finger wave, all smiles. This afternoon it takes everything in him to plaster on a mask of polite interest, sign the book, and reply with banalities. He wishes he could get out of here.

"Make it out to Kate."

He would know that voice, the shape of her hips, the line of her fingers across the book - he'd know it anywhere. After three months or three years, he'd know it.

Seeing her, so beautiful, so confident, knocks the wind out of him. He can't look at her anymore, can't do it.

How can you love someone so very much, and hate her at the same time?

He scrawls his name across the dust jacket, hands it over, glances down the line.

_You know what we are, Castle? We are over. Now get out._

It's what she wanted. He's out. No reason to come back. Castle keeps his eyes on the line behind her, ignores her determined hesitation just long enough to make her doubt herself. Good. He's tired of this, and he's angry.

_Three months, Kate. Three months don't get washed away just because I love you, just because nothing seems right without you._

Three months.

Esposito and Ryan must have told her he had all the files, all the meager fruit of their vain investigation. She's just here looking for her evidence, here to use him.

Castle grits his teeth and raises an eyebrow at her, staring her down with as much nothing on his face as he can possibly get there.

She moves on.

As he should too.

* * *

><p>Outside the bookstore, Castle catches sight of her dark hair framing the pale line of her face, the brilliant cover of his book peeking out from behind her clasped arms.<p>

Kate is nothing, if not determined. He can be determined; he walks right past her, headed for the street; he's going to hail a taxi and ditch her. Going to walk right past her and not look, not give in.

Of course he can't.

What was that about moving on? Not going to happen any time soon.

Especially when she sets her jaw and lets him know that Josh is out of the picture, then stalks off.

Damn it. He's even watching her walk away. He's watching her-

He's crossing the street after her, hurrying to catch up even as he winces at his own humiliating desperation.

He won't call after her. He won't-

"Kate."

She turns, just that pause in her stride as she hits the edge of the park, her hair spilling over her shoulder, her eyes too wide, too dark in the pale slash of her face. She looks. . .disappointed.

It hurts. It hurts too much, and he doesn't want to go back to that hurt. Anger is easier, and tidier, and doesn't ask him difficult questions. Anger holds on better; anger masks the truth.

She eyes him as he crosses to her; her hair in waves around her face, long and sun-kissed. He knows she spent the summer at her dad's cabin; Jim called a few times to keep him up to date, entirely of the man's own volition, when Kate was out if earshot.

The sunstreaks look good on her. It's so good to have this picture of her to carry around in his heart, rather than the exhausted, raw Beckett who, even when smiling at him in the hospital, was so pale and withdrawn and faded, like the bullet had taken some of her life force with it.

"We should talk," she says, and it's so her. It's her. Nothing soft in her voice, just a firm determination to have it out.

Castle feels awkward standing out on the sidewalk, so he gestures towards the park, guides her further in. She drops to a swing, leans her head against the chain, her eyes on the book she cradles in her hands.

Now she wants to talk? Three months of nothing and now?

So he listens. He listens because after three months spent in an agony of confusion, hurt, and silence, hearing her voice again is just. . .the very thing he needed. And though it doesn't clear up anything at first, just hearing her try to explain gives him relief.

He listens. And he hears what she isn't saying.

She's not saying it loud and clear.

If Rick Castle was part of all the stuff she was trying to sort through, and now she's sorted, and she's back? He hears exactly what she's saying. She wants the thing (love) he's offering, but she's stuck, she's crawled up in the tower of her mother's case and she's not coming through it, out of it, until it's done. She can't. There's a wall around her that hems her in.

So what is there left for him to do but lay siege to that wall? She can't be the person she wants to be, she can't be in the kind of relationship she wants with that wall inside her? Fine. He'll amass an army to ride out against it; he'll bring on the demolition.

His heart aches to see her flickering smile, the tease of her eyes from the curtain of her hair. He needs more than this, longs for more than this, but there's no way she'll say more.

"So what are you going to do about it?" she asks. She means about Gates kicking him out of the precinct, and his newfound determination to get back in. He knows she means that, and that alone, but what he hears is something different, a challenge to his heart. She's thrown down the gauntlet, and he is going to take it up.

_I accept._

"Everything I can. Everything I've got." He pushes at the ground with his feet, rocks the swing back; her eyes track his movements. His jaw works as he debates his next words; so much has built up these last three months. "Because you're worth it, Kate."

Castle lifts his eyes to her finally, meets her gaze directly, letting her know exactly what he means, and _yes, Kate, you should be afraid. _

_I'm coming for you. I'm coming for your heart. And I'm not giving up._

Castle stands, the swing bouncing with its relative weightlessness; he holds out his hand for her, willing her to take it.

"Come on. Let's do this."

She studies his outstretched hand for a heartbeat longer than he would like, then touches her fingers to his palm. He grasps her hand and tugs; she comes easily, too close, practically in his arms.

She's got the book cradled against her chest; it keeps a small distance between them. Her eyes drift to his, then down to his mouth, then flicker back up to his eyes.

Castle still has her hand. He slides his palm up the outside of her arm, to her neck, and leans in to brush a barely-there kiss to her cheek.

"You might not know this. But I'm excellent at climbing walls."

* * *

><p>He didn't lie to her. He is angry still. But those words she's given him, those words she's extended tentatively as a peace offering, keep twirling in his mind, and it feels good, after those three months of desperately trying – and failing – not to think about her.<p>

He understands. Rationally, as far as arguments and logic go, he understands. It makes sense. Kate doesn't feel she's ready; she doesn't want to jump into a relationship if she cannot give it everything she has. Although that didn't seem to bother her with Josh, the sneaky little voice at the back of Castle's mind murmurs.

Shut up, the rest of him answers. Josh is gone. He needs to focus on Kate, not on his own, stupid jealousy issues. Josh is in the past. He won't lie; the very thought has a delicious taste of triumph to it.

Easy, tiger. Just because she's single doesn't mean she's necessarily going to fall into your arms.

Well. Unless you play your cards right.

What he needs... What he needs is a battle plan, a strategy that will take into account the forces at his disposal, an assessment of the shape and strength of his enemy. Of that wall inside. He needs to think of Kate Beckett as this unassailable fortress - no windows, no doors, no openings of any kind.

He needs to lay siege to her.

And when she has no supplies left, no food, no water, nothing to sustain that wall, then she'll have to surrender. Right?

She'll have to lower the drawbridge and come out, vulnerable, armor-less, and he, Richard Castle, will be there.

He will be waiting for her with open arms, with an open heart.

Because he's known, for a while now, that this stubborn heart of his won't settle for anything less. It's all or nothing.

It will be Kate Beckett, or nothing.

* * *

><p>"Everybody's gone, Castle."<p>

A ragged breath and a sigh of frustration.

He loves her. He loves her and he doesn't think he can sit at the table and watch her struggle not to fall apart. Only. . .if he stands up and wraps his arms around her, he's afraid of how small she'll feel, of how her composure will finally break. So he looks at her with longing while she lifts her chin, tilting her head back to keep tears from falling.

"I'm still here."

He should've thought before he spoke, but it's out there now. It seems to have no effect; she's still struggling to show nothing.

He makes a stand. This is what Captain Montgomery taught him, to step up and take the heat, to make a stand. Because sometimes loving someone means doing things that hurt you both, that feel wretched, if it's for her own good.

For her. Because he loves her, because she's extraordinary and what else is he going to do?

"I'm not going anywhere," he says, shifting around her dining room table, the light dim, her bright shirt making her lips look red, her eyes too dark. "I'm not going anywhere, and we will get this guy, Kate."

A lone tear escapes her left eye, sails down the angular line of her cheekbone, collects at the corner of her mouth. Castle reaches out with his thumb and smooths it away, the moisture soaking in to the chapped edge of her lip. She's gone still before him, and there's knowledge in her eyes.

She knows. He's certain she knows.

But she says nothing.

He wonders how much she cried, alone in her father's cabin this summer, the sounds of water and the wind in the trees her only companions. How many times did she dash away her tears with only the back of her hand, a bite to her bottom lip?

Too many times. Her lips are red not because of the rich fuschia of her shirt, but because of the teeth marks, the broken open places, the line of chapstick rubbed off.

He wants to heal those lips.

Castle swipes his thumb along the frown line that trails down from the corner of her mouth. He captures her chin and tugs; she doesn't make a move towards him, but those eyes are so dark, framed by the thick eyeliner, the long sweep of heavy black lashes. Those eyes with their knowing resignation.

Castle adjusts to her; she's nearly as tall as he is, even without her heels, and her body is all hard lines and jutting ninety degree angles, all of it softening as she rounds towards him.

He kisses her slowly, a sweep of his mouth against hers, languorous, and then her lips part and he hums low in his throat as she grants him passage. Castle is exacting, thorough, his exploration so detailed that she leans closer, her hands at his biceps as if holding on.

He uses his teeth on her lower lip, soothing with his tongue, catches her scattered breath as she lifts into him, her hips firm and angled, canted towards his.

He wraps his right hand behind her neck, his fingers in the strands of her straight hair, baby fine and soft, sliding along his knuckles.

There is knowledge in her kiss as well.

If this is what she spent three months getting straight in her head, he's fine with this. Last summer, he spent three pointless months trying to forget her; this summer, he spent three miserable months trying to convince himself that he did not, in fact, need her.

He was wrong. She's unforgettable; she's all he needs.

She takes the first step back. Which is fine, because that will never be him; he will not be the one to slow them down, halt the pace, erase what little progress remains. So it would have to be her.

She has a hand to her mouth, her eyes turned away from him. There is a long silence, not awkward, but waiting.

"Thank you," she attempts, but her throat is raw with sex, and he has to close his eyes and make a concentrated effort not to take her back. "For being here. I need my partner on this."

With her emphasis on partner, he knows she's trying to remind him of what they are, what she can give. He leans across the barely there space between them, angling his mouth towards her cheek for a gentle brush of his lips. "I need you too," he whispers back, his voice at the shell of her ear. A ripple of awareness slides across her skin; he can see its wake.

Kate raises a steady hand to his shoulder, fingering his collar, her eyes regretful. He stays perfectly still, afraid to spook her. She turns her face to his and adopts the quiet and introspective Kate he saw sitting in a swing beside him, the day of the book-signing.

"You know what I have to do, Castle."

He nods. But there's no escaping this now, whatever this is. Nothing and everything. "We'll get it done."

* * *

><p>That kiss clings to his skin, burns at the back of his mind for hours after he's left her apartment. It reminds him of the way he obsessed over their undercover kiss for weeks, in what seems like a different life. Not even a full year has passed, and so much has changed.<p>

But this hasn't. This thing between him and Kate, the irresistible attraction, the sparks that mask what goes on at a deeper level – it's the same, only a thousand times stronger. Exactly like that kiss was.

No excuse to hide behind this time, no false reasons. Only Kate Beckett's mouth opening for him in her dim, silent apartment, her body pressed to his, raw and open like this gaping hole she's left in his heart.

Ah, but he's working on this. Working on mending his damaged heart muscle; working on tearing down those walls of hers. Working on Kate Beckett.

Which is why, when the man calls, says he's a friend of Montgomery's, Castle doesn't hesitate, not for one moment. Kate needs this, this case solved, needs the closure and the avenging of her mother's death to liberate her from that the demanding claws of grief.

And *he* needs Kate.

When he hangs up the phone, however, his spirits are somewhat crushed. This leaves him nowhere. The files that Roy kept don't make it possible to expose the guilty party – they can only serve for blackmail purposes, serve to protect Roy's family, protect Kate.

_If_ she stops digging.

He keeps turning it in his mind, examining it from all sides, a little more desperate every time he comes back to his starting point. There's no other way. Hopefully they will find the guy – surely some evidence will surface, some new fact will arise to their attention – but in the meantime… Kate has to stop.

She will hate him for this. If she ever finds out, if she realizes he got this call and never told her – they'll be over then. They'll be done, for good this time.

Unless. Unless the siege comes through. Unless he can show her how good they'd be together, unless he can crawl under her skin, into her heart, close enough that even when she finds out, she won't be able to disentangle herself from him.

This is a perilous mission, one that doesn't have many chances of succeeding.

But it's all he's got.

And as he speaks to his mother, pleads in hushed tones with her, argues fiercely than he just can't, *can't* lose Beckett again, he gets a sudden flash of inspiration.

Kate cannot go anywhere near the case… But no mention has been made of him.

* * *

><p>What is there to cry about? Is it a mournful thing to know that the man who loves you (who you love) has your back?<p>

Still, she has to chew on the inside of her cheek to hold back a fresh wave of tears. She told herself she'd have that one session to cry, and then it was over.

Kate steps off the elevator and back into the lobby of her therapist's building. His offices are on the fourth floor, and she likes staring out the window as she talks, giving up pieces of herself to a man who makes notes.

Not like Castle makes notes. Because Castle makes notes with joy, gleeful over some new scrap of psyche. Her therapist makes notes precisely, controlled, with a complete lack of comment.

She talks as best as she can and waits for his next question.

She's back because she froze, because Castle, unarmed, stood right behind her and yet still trusted, still believed that she would take care of things.

_Take it easy, Kate._

Impossible. She saw the gun, she froze. She heard Yancey yelling at her and she froze.

So yes. It *is* a terrible thing to know that Castle has her back. She wants him to be safe with her, but he's not. Not safe with any part of her, not in her heart and not in her job.

_Take it easy, Kate._

Almost as if the sound of his words in her head conjures him, there's Castle. He's leaning against the concrete façade of the building, a knee up with his foot planted behind him. He huddles in the army jacket, black tshirt under that, his head down as if he's bracing himself in a biting wind.

But it's sunny and warm, and he shouldn't look so miserable.

"Castle?" she calls, pausing in the sidewalk only to be jostled from behind. She slides closer, unconsciously brushing back her coat to check her gun's clearance. Too many people, too close.

She used to love that about the city, now it puts her on edge.

Castle straightens as she comes closer, reaching out a hand as if he wants hers. She glances down to his open palm, the five fingers wriggling at her in welcome. She hesitates, but slides her hand in his.

He smiles, and all that misery evaporates.

"Hey, Castle," she says softly, watching him. "What're you doing here?"

"Waiting on you."

Without her permission, the conversation floats back to her from yesterday. She thanked him for having her back and _always _never came out of his mouth. As if there might be a statute of limitations on this. Whatever it is.

"How long have you been waiting?" Her session ran over; she's been there for nearly two hours.

"As long as it takes, Kate."

Her stupid heart speeds up, and he cracks a wide smile, as if he knows.

"As long as it takes."


	2. Chapter 2

Castle's been back at the precinct for a week and a half when he gets his first chance to make a dent in Kate's wall. They're working a double homicide – a recently married couple, Jason and Lisa Herdman, have been found dead in their bedroom. The husband was pinned to the wall in a ghastly parody of the Christ figure, while his wife lay on their bed, naked, stabbed in the abdomen.

The whole room was spattered with blood, the rich red color clashing with the pale pink of the wallpaper. The gruesome spectacle had left them all uneasy – not even Esposito's joke (that if this was a serial killer fixating on newlyweds, it was lucky Ryan and Jenny were not yet married) had gotten more than meagre smiles out of them.

After two days of investigation, they're short on leads and short on suspects. They're double-checking alibis (well, Castle is staring at Kate while she double-checks alibis) when Ryan hangs up and hums interestedly, writing something down. Castle, along with the others, turns a questioning eye to the young detective. Kevin only smiles, looking pleased with himself, and taps his chin with the pen he's holding.

"Ryan."

Kate's voice is rough with frustration and impatience. Castle looks at her mug: empty. It seems coffee is very much needed; he'll go get some, as soon as Esposito's partner tells them whatever put that cat-ate-canary look on his face.

"Well," Ryan starts, taking his sweet time, "I was calling the Byrne Theatre to check Reverend Daniel's alibi."

It takes half a second for Castle to remember who Reverend Daniel is. Right, the guy who married Jason and Lisa.

"And it seems," Jenny's fiancé goes on with a small, slightly irritating smile, "that there's a small problem here."

"We checked," Esposito objects. "He still had the ticket for the play."

"Yes, but. Whoever we talked to last time forgot to mention something pretty important."

"Which was?" Castle prompts, because he can tell Kate is fuming next to him.

Satisfaction is almost rolling off Ryan when he delivers his next line. "There was no show that night. The play was cancelled."

"What? Why?" Beckett inquires firmly, a mask of concentration falling over her beautiful face.

"Their lead was sick, and the understudy didn't show. They had to cancel."

"So," Castle thinks aloud, "Daniel bought a ticket to use as his alibi, but he didn't go. Which is why he didn't know the play had been cancelled."

"And even better," Ryan adds. "The theatre called or emailed everyone on their list, offering either a refund or a ticket to another show. Daniel didn't send his ticket back.

"He wanted to hold on to it," Kate realizes, the annoyance completely gone now. She sounds thrilled, almost triumphant. "He *needed* it, for his alibi."

"Am I the only one," Esposito intervenes, "who finds it hard to believe that a church guy is responsible for that murder scene?"

Castle shrugs, though he can see Javier's point.

"Even reverends can be rotten inside, Esposito," Kate answers with a grim look. "Okay. You two go pick up the guy, and we'll go through the evidence and the crime scene photos again, see if we can link him to this."

The writer watches the guys leave, then jumps to his feet and snatches Kate's cup. She shoots him a grateful, warm glance that leaves his knees a little weak. He tries to tell himself that she's just pleased with the progress on the case.

Still. As he heads for the break room, he realizes what exactly caused his breath to catch in his chest, what's responsible for that strange leap of his heart.

She's being so completely open. She's not hiding her feelings from him anymore. That look in her dark eyes – she's letting him in. The thought shakes him to the core, sends excited delight tingling into his toes and fingertips.

Kate Beckett, letting him in.

He's not so sure he will need that plan of his, after all.

* * *

><p>They haven't found any way to incriminate the reverend when Ryan and Esposito come back empty-handed, stepping out of the elevator alone. Castle watches Kate's brow furrow, the way her jaw sets. So beautiful.<p>

"You didn't find him?" She asks as Esposito sinks dejectedly into his chair, Ryan sitting on the edge of his desk.

"Oh, we did," Kevin answers, irony lacing with his words. "But once he understood the goal of our questions, the good reverend got…irate. Absolutely refused to follow us. And he had a few believers there who jumped to his defence, started vouching for him. You'd have thought we were Satan himself. Also, our friend Esposito had some crisis of conscience and didn't exactly help –"

"Dude, I don't remember you fighting to take this guy away," his partner snaps.

"Well it's not like I could've done it on my own when my partner was –"

"Guys," Kate calls decidedly.

They go quiet in an instant, and Castle smirks. He loves it when she exerts her power.

"Did he at least answer your questions?" she asks, arching an eyebrow.

"Before he realized we were suspecting him, yeah," Esposito answers, looking a little sheepish. "Says he didn't know the show was cancelled because he was sick, stayed at home. No one can verify that. When we asked why he had lied, he got pretty angry, said he had just confused the days, that he had gone to the theatre several times that week."

"Is that true?"

Ryan shrugs. "One of the girls from the theatre remembers seeing him there last week. Or so she thinks. They don't have security cameras, so we can't be sure, one way or the other."

"Hmm." Kate's lower lip has been sucked in between her teeth; Castle watches with a mixture of arousal and concern for the fate of that poor, worried lip.

"Did you find anything that could point to Reverend Daniel?" Ryan asks, his eyes traveling over the murder board.

"No," Castle admits. "Well, except for Jason being pinned up to that cross."

"And that's thin," Kate adds somberly. "Not the kind of detail you can build an investigation on."

"What are you saying?" Rick turns to her, surprised. "You don't think he's our guy?"

"It's not about what I think, Castle. It's about what the jury will think. You know that. We can send uniforms to pick up Daniel, and we can question him, but if he doesn't crack… We've got nothing against him. I don't even know how we'll convince a judge to let us search his office or his home."

"Well," Castle says. "There's always the Lois and Clark method."

Kate's large, bottomless eyes fixate on him, alive with curiosity, and his chest tightens.

"I mean, you and I could go there, pretend to be an engaged couple looking for a minister, and I'll find a way to distract him while you search his office."

"Undercover."

"Yeah."

"Gates is not going to like it."

"Nope."

A sly smile stretches Kate's lips. Castle can feel Ryan and Esposito smirking, even though he can't see them; but it doesn't matter because Kate's studying him, considering his suggestion, and of course he knows they wouldn't *really* be engaged, but still. The idea shimmers appealingly in his mind.

"What if he knows you?" She says at last.

Castle raises a shoulder in a half-shrug. "I can pretend I'm flying under the radar because I don't want the press to learn about my new love interest and impending wedding."

He thinks she just shivered. It's impossible to be certain, of course, but… He thinks her spine straightened when he said wedding.

How interesting.

After a minute, Kate nods slowly, still deep in thought. "All right, Castle. We'll do it your way. Give it a try."

He has to wrestle back the instant, blinding, overwhelming joy – you'd think she'd actually agreed to marry him.

"In that case," he says, forcing his voice into a low, nonchalant tone. "Do I get to buy you a ring?"

Kate smiles – actually smiles, wide, dazzling – before she drops her eyes to her desk, as if afraid that she's showing too much.

"I'll be fine using my mother's ring, Castle. But thanks for offering."

Are those the faintest traces of a blush on her cheeks? The looks on Esposito's and Ryan's faces – somewhere between agape and mightily interested – seem to confirm it.

A whole world of possibilities opens before him. He cannot help losing himself, cannot keep his mind from wandering. Kate Beckett smiling when he jokes about buying her a ring? It seems insane, much too good to be true.

Maybe this is an alternate reality.

When he emerges from this dreamland made of engagement rings, wedding dresses and Kate Beckett, his partner is standing at the door of the bullpen, her jacket thrown over her shoulder, amusement etched on the harmonious lines of her face.

"Are you coming, or what?"

"Yeah, yeah," he hastens to reply, trying not to trip over his own feet as he passes a snickering Esposito and a knowingly smiling Ryan.

He's always had a thing for alternate realities, anyway.

* * *

><p>The reverend is a man in his forties, clean-shaven, with deep brown eyes in a rather heavily lined face. He doesn't look all that threatening, Kate thinks as she sits down in his office, acutely aware of Castle's fingers entangled with hers.<p>

He insisted, when they were in the car, that they should really look like a couple, so that Daniel wouldn't get suspicious. Kate agreed, but she didn't miss the elated glimmer in the writer's eyes. He's going to try and make the most of this. Well, she can always choose to turn the tables on him, whenever she feels like it.

For now, the reverend is asking them basic questions, how they met, their concept of religion, the way they envision their wedding. Castle is doing a wonderful job of answering these, and she's letting him talk, using the time to detail Daniel's office.

She quickly spots the cabinet where he seems to be keeping his files. That's her target. She's trying to think of an excuse to get up and look around when Castle addresses her.

"Right, honey?" He asks with a tender smile.

Honey? Oh, he will pay for this. Kate tries to breathe past the lump in her throat, direct result of the expression on his face. If Castle is playing a role, then he's an even better actor than his mother.

Who is she kidding? She knows he's not playing.

"Of course," she answers at last, finding a smile for him when he squeezes her hand in warning. "Yes."

The reverend is giving her a strange look, so Kate acts on instinct. Leaning in, she brushes Castle's lips with hers, and presses a kiss to his cheek. She feels him freeze against her; she lingers, giving him time to regroup, to remember why they're here.

When he relaxes slowly, she lets go, sits back straight in her chair.

God, this whole thing is a *terrible* idea. Why did she let him talk her into it?

But her little manoeuvre worked. Nicholas Daniel is looking at them with kind eyes now, obviously thinking something along the lines of _aren't they cute_. She finishes the job.

"It was love at first sight," she explains with a shy, sheepish smile. She tries not to look at Castle.

The reverend seems to be eating it up.

"So, uh," her 'fiancé' says, clearing his throat. "Could we look around, see what the church is like? We don't want something too big, but we do need some space, with the guests and…"

He doesn't finish his sentence, but Daniel has jumped up, a commercial smile on his face. Huh. He no longer looks like the fatherly, warm man from the beginning. Kate makes a note of that.

Castle extends a hand to help her on her feet – she doesn't know whether to be annoyed or amused at his gentlemanly ways – and she raises gracefully…Before falling back down with a yelp of pain.

Her acting skills are rather good as well, if the concerned expressions on both writer's and reverend's faces are anything to go by.

"Oh," she moans, circling her ankle with her hands and trying to massage it.

"Kate? Are you alright?"

She can tell by his voice that he's figured it out – moaning is not really her style. But Nicholas Daniel doesn't know that.

"Are you hurt, my dear?" the older man inquires with solicitude.

"Oh, it's just… I twisted my ankle when I got out of the car earlier. I thought it was nothing, but obviously –" She bites her lip, like she doesn't know what to do. "It's not that painful," she says hesitantly, "But maybe it'd be better if you went to the church without me? I can wait here, I don't mind. You'll have to make a detailed account for me, Rick," she adds playfully, giving him a soft, teasing look.

She can see his Adam's apple move as he swallows heavily. _Ha. Take that, Castle_.

"Are you quite sure?" the reverend asks. "I could call one of my aides to keep you company, if you want? Or maybe check if we have a wheelchair –"

"Oh, no, really, don't trouble yourself on my account. I'll wait here patiently. I trust Rick's eye," she finishes with a smile.

That part is, well, sort of true.

"Oh. Ok, then." Daniel is twisting his hands, and Kate gets the feeling that he's not really pleased with this development, but that he doesn't know how to help it. "Well, we won't be long. Make yourself comfortable."

"Thank you," she answers, doing her best to look both charming and harmless.

"I'll see you soon, love," Castle adds, and before she can even digest the moniker, he leans in to kiss her, his lips meeting hers in a gentle, but firm way. They're warm, and soft, and Kate wants nothing more than to dart her tongue into his mouth.

Oh, god. Terrible, terrible idea.

She's grateful that Castle lets go quickly, grateful to be left alone with her pounding heart, her buzzing ears. But she still catches the pleased look on her partner's face as he walks out after the reverend.

Bastard.

* * *

><p>Terrible, wonderful, terrible idea.<p>

Castle's so preoccupied with thinking about how good her lips felt under his that he barely realizes the Reverend has stopped suddenly in front of him. He bumps into the man and totters for a moment, his hand out to touch the wall for balance.

The offices are connected to the sanctuary via a long hallway, probably a former open-air walkway that was enclosed when the church remodeled. Castle can clearly see all the way back down the walk to the hallway they've just left, and ahead of him, he can see the double doors leading to the church.

"Reverend?"

"Oh, I've forgotten it. I'm so sorry. I can't believe-"

And he's already started to rush back the way they've come.

Panic seizes Castle - Kate's back there rifling through the man's private files (which is so illegal) - and here comes Reverend Daniel, hurrying like he knows exactly what's going on. Castle lunges after him, snatching at the man's dress shirt, hoping to stop him.

Daniel does stop, and he glances back with an odd expression.

Castle stumbles on a plausible excuse. "What is it? I'm sure, since we're already so close, we can just go on and see the church-?"

"I've got a great brochure, though, which lists all the amenities, the wedding services - you know, like, extra chairs, a welcome table or podium, a tablecloth - the things you can rent from us to make it easier for the set-up. It also lists the times we're open, so you can come in and - Really, I must go get the brochure."

And just like that, Daniel is rushing back.

Castle jerks forward, scrambling for an idea, something to warn Kate, a way to get this guy going somewhere else, when an older man in a baseball cap turns down the walkway and stops the Reverend.

"Oh, good, there you are. Look, Rev, we've found where we think the rats are getting in."

Reverend Daniel's face blanches and he casts a hesitant look up to Castle. For his part, Rick tries to look appropriately concerned, seeing as how he and his fiancé are looking to rent the sanctuary for their wedding, and steps closer to the maintenance worker.

"Rats?" Castle says, egging it on.

Daniel takes him by the arm and shakes his head. "We are definitely on top of the problem. No, not even a problem, let me assure you. If you could possibly. . .if it isn't any trouble, do you mind waiting in my office while I see. . .?"

"Oh, naturally," Castle responds, nodding his head. "I definitely think you should check out this. . .rat. . .situation."

Daniel practically slumps with relief. "If you'll just wait in my office with your lovely fiancé, I'll be back in a jiffy."

Castle smiles and nods, heads straight for Daniel's office as the man scuttles away with the maintenance worker. The second the two are around the bend in the opposite direction, Castle bursts inside.

Kate jumps and goes for her gun, like an instinct maybe, but Castle holds his hands up and shakes his head. "Sweetheart, you were nearly made. Daniel was rushing back here to get some brochure and then a maintenance worker, thank God and pun intended, diverted him."

Kate's got her hands in the files from the Reverend's little cabinet next to his desk. She gestures with the folder and cuts her eyes to the door. Castle closes it behind him and heads over to her.

"Our victims' file. See this?"

Her finger is on the section labeled: Vices. It's odd, because the Reverend hadn't asked them for particular sins, or even if they have recurring arguments, and it's not like the revered was offering marriage counseling.

"Vices?"

"He's got notes here, but I can't figure out what they could mean. I want to take this back with me, but-"

"Wait. Here, let me take pictures with my phone," he interrupts, digging his phone out of his pocket.

He pulls up the app and fiddles with the screen to make it zoom, then clicks a few. Too late, he realizes they went straight to instagram and he curses under his breath. "Oh crap. Kate-"

At that moment, he hears Daniel outside the door: "I've got those heavy duty nails in my office, Charlie. Let me get them-"

Oh, shit. (Wait, he has nails?)

Kate, apparently not as distracted by that revelation, slaps the file shut on his fingers and shoves it back down into the hanging folder. The doorknob twists open. Castle pockets his phone, but just as he's moving, Kate grabs him by the lapels and shoves him into the filing cabinet.

The force of his back against the open drawer closes it, and the sound of his body against metal muffles the thump of the drawer closing.

And if that wasn't enough, Kate's body is pressed against his, and she's launching herself at him in an attempt to make it all seem less conspicuous.

He catches her with his mouth, her lips dry and chapped at first, but softening the longer he kisses her. She moves her head like she's going to pull away, but he captures her with his palms, brings her in to feast on her. His tongue darts to the sweet spot at the corner of her mouth and swipes along her lower lip, even as she takes it, almost passive against him.

When he sucks on her lower lip, she moans and her knees slide against his, her hands finding his chest. And then she gives back, exploring his mouth with a hot intensity that stuns him, leaves him vulnerable to the dirty way her tongue moves.

Her body seems to rise towards his even as she assaults him, sliding her hand into the placket of his dress shirt, her cool, strong fingers meeting the cotton of his undershirt, her thumb fiddling with a button as if she might pop it open.

Dazed, but not at all stupid, Castle takes that as permission. He moves a hand to her back, rucking up her shirt under her blazer, higher, to her bra, sliding his fingers under it. He curves a palm on her ass and lifts her just slightly higher-

"What do you think you're doing? In my office? This is highly inappropriate."

The reverend's voice hits him like a slap. Castle pops his lips off of hers and blinks past her gorgeous, flushed face to the Reverend standing, gob-smacked, just inside his office.

Castle looks back to Kate (because the sight is just oh, so much more appealing, with her hair mussed from his hands and her lips tinged red and her mouth open, panting). But then Kate pulls it together and jerks back from him.

"We have certain standards of behavior, walls in place to keep us from crossing certain lines-" the Reverend starts, but Castle can't take his eyes off of Kate Beckett.

Yeah. They have walls as well, he thinks. And they've just pretty much knocked down all of them.

Haven't they?

He's got to talk to her about this before she can start rebuilding that wall.

* * *

><p>Kate follows Castle out, still too stunned to do much more than stare and try to keep her mouth shut. That kiss – oh, god. The undercover one was nothing compared to this. All she wants is to grab Castle, push him into a wall in a deserted alley, and finish what they've started.<p>

It scares her, how fast, how much she wants that.

She pushes it back firmly, the devouring hunger, the siren song of her skin calling for his. It unbalances her, makes her lose her focus. When she lifts her eyes to look at Castle, he's watching her with a strange expression, somewhere between pleased and unsure.

"What?" She says, and crap, her voice is too low, too needy. So not her.

He smiles, wide, like he can't help it.

"I was only *surprised*, Castle," she snaps, while knowing perfectly well that trying to justify herself isn't going to help matters any.

"Oh, is that what you call it?" he answers teasingly, knowingly. Damn, she won't be able to make it out of this with her dignity intact. "Because that felt more like *enthusiastic* to me."

She bites her lip, lowers her gaze to the pavement. Anything, anything but his handsome face and laughing eyes will do.

"Don't you remember what I told you, Castle? That day at the swingset? About the wall?" She asks finally, because she can think of no other way out.

He grows more serious, but his eyes are still that intense blue and –

No, not going there.

"I do," he answers, determined. "But Kate, I think you're wrong."

What the –?

"What do you mean, wrong?" She exclaims, suddenly indignant. She's trying her best here, trying to be better, to eventually be what he deserves, and he just told her this is *wrong*? "Because what, Castle, you know me better than I know myself?"

"No, no," he hedges, his hands half raised as if to appease her. "I just mean…I think you're confused, Kate."

Ha. Well. He's got that right. She arches an eyebrow, letting him know she'll hear what he wants to say. Castle draws closer, which makes her nervous. Still, she doesn't step back.

She's not sure why.

"I think… That wall inside. It's here because of your mother's death, because the pain was so great that you never wanted to hurt like that again. You told me that. So this… This has to do with loss. Grief. Not with vengeance, not with murderers running around or an unsolved case. Those things aren't connected. You want to solve the case because it's who you are, because you crave justice, and your mom deserves it. But vengeance isn't gonna fill the hole she left in you."

"And what is, Castle?" She asks challengingly, working her jaw. "Love?"

She regrets it the moment the word tumbles out of her mouth. Not because of her cynical tone, not because of the hurt that flickers in Castle's eyes, but because it slices right through her – the realization that it might be true.

That he might be right.

They stare at each other, the weight of all those unsaid words hanging between them (well, if she's honest, some of them _have_ been said, she's just pretending she doesn't remember). The writer looks into her, and he must see too much, because he takes one more step forward.

Her defenses are down, and she's vulnerable, open in a way she's never been with anyone. Could he be right? Can the wall have nothing to do with solving the case?

It's a terrifying thought: if it's true, she's been pushing Castle away for nothing, she's put him through that lonely summer for no reason.

No, that's not true. She needed that time alone, needed to figure out what it was she really wanted.

And she knows, doesn't she? She wants him.

What if there's nothing standing between her and what she wants?

She's dangerously leaning forward when her phone saves her, shrilling loudly and making both of them jump. She takes it out of her pocket – her hand is trembling slightly.

God, the things that man does to her.

It's Esposito calling. Kate mentally blesses her old partner, tells Castle it's the precinct, and takes the call, starting her way back to the car.

The five minutes' walk to get there isn't long enough for her to forget the disappointment etched on Castle's face, the gentle shadows thrown there by resignation. She can taste blood in her mouth as she settles behind the wheel, an indication of how lame she feels; and she's left with that one, terrible piece of knowledge.

She's a coward.


	3. Chapter 3

At least they got the guy. That's all that can soothe Castle's churning guts as he sits beside Kate's desk and watches her fill out paperwork. It wasn't the Reverend after all (despite the flimsy alibi), but the rat-catching maintenance man. He's been called by the Lord to rid the sacred marriage of Vices, apparently.

Whatever that means. Crazy talk is what it is.

Honestly, Castle can't recall the details too well; he's spent the day trying to figure out how to undo the damage between them. The look on her face still haunts him: serious, struck, and ashamed.

Ashamed.

He hates that. He doesn't want her to ever think-

He wants her to know how amazing she is, how amazing *this* is, and can be, if she'll let it be. He loves her; he loves her and sometimes it just washes over him like a tidal wave, dragging him out to sea.

He can't help kissing her. He wants to kiss her now, even now, while she has that too serious look on her face, while her fingers fly over the keyboard, while the two parallel lines set up a permanent home between her eyebrows, just over the elegant line of her nose.

Castle glances at his hands, wonders if he should slink off while she's busy, let her have some time without him staring lustfully.

But no. Because he has a plan. A siege. This is just the first strike, his first attack from the crouching defense of his foxhole. _Dig in_.

"We gonna hit up my place?" he asks suddenly. Time for an incursion into her claimed territory. No more of this No-Man's Land.

Kate swings her head up to look at him, tightness in the corners of her eyes. "The bar? Yeah. Sounds good."

He thinks it's only her surprise that makes her answer positively. But he'll take it.

He wants back in. He wants back inside Kate so badly-

Well. Don't rush it. Patience.

So he walks her to the Old Haunt with his hands in the pockets of his jacket, trying to be careful, trying to be good, and listens to the crisp sound of fall under his feet. Not so much leaves, but a quality of coldness lent to the sidewalk, to the trash scuttling ahead of the wind, to the grit that grinds under his shoes.

When they get inside, the bar is dim, and the boys are nowhere to be found. Castle leads her to their table, stands as she sits on one side, then shrugs out of his jacket and lets it drop to the other seat.

"I'll get us some beer?"

She nods.

When he gets back with a pitcher and glasses, she lifts her eyebrows at him but pours them each a drink. She takes small sips and he follows suit; he wants to be sober for this night. Needs to be sober, if he doesn't want to do something stupid.

After a moment, Castle realizes that Kate has propped her feet up on his bench as she leans back in the booth, her glass cradled to her chest. He drops a hand on her feet and rubs his thumb over the exposed skin along the top of her foot, drawing up to her shin.

She focuses her gaze on him slowly, watching him without saying a word, as if she's pulling her consciousness back from some great distance.

Yesterday, he would've cracked a joke. Today he doesn't know what to say to make things right. He has kissed her twice since she told him, that day on the swings, that she wasn't ready. He's trying to prove her wrong. She *is* wrong.

So she's got a wall around her heart. He can handle it. He's got this.

After a minute of sipping her beer, Kate puts the glass back on the table and crosses her arms over her chest. "What if I'm wrong?"

"What?" He hadn't expected to encounter enemy movement quite so soon.

"If I'm wrong, and it's not really a wall. But a hole. Like you said."

Easy. "Told you. We'll fill it in." _That's what she said_ circles around in his brain, but he doesn't want to ruin this moment. She seems intent. A joke might ruin the balance.

A deep breath from her. If she had a beer bottle, he thinks she'd be picking the label off. "What if it's a black hole?"

He pauses to consider that one. Is this a feint? Or is this where she's concentrated the majority of her defenses?

Thinking in military jargon is making his head spin. "Is it a black hole?" he asks.

"I don't know. Nothing. . .nothing seems to be able to survive it," she says softly, and drops her eyes to the glass on the table.

_I'll survive._

He wishes he had more of her to touch than just her feet, crossed at the ankles beside him. If he could touch her, she'd surrender this time too. Just like before. Sure-fire way to get to her is through a kiss. "It doesn't *feel* like a black hole, Kate."

She lifts her eyes; the need for answers, the need for anything fills their dark depths.

But he doesn't have anything else to give her. "Gut feeling," he says. Because he can't say, again, _I love you_. Not when she clearly doesn't want to hear it. Saying those words causes three months of retreat. So long as he can engage her, here, outside the walls, then he has a chance.

Her shoulders lift and fall, maybe on a sigh or a held back sob; it's been hard to tell with her lately, which emotion is which. He wonders if she spent those three months trying to master an iron control over her face.

It's not working. The shame is back. Shame and regret. And denial. The denial is the worst one to see.

Castle closes his eyes against it, shell-shocked. Dizzy. Ears ringing. He hates that look.

And every day he does this, every day he walks beside her and listens to her and bounces theories off her and jokes with her, every day he picks up this life back where it left off last summer is another day in this foxhole, digging in deeper, and damn, he is tired. He is tired of digging. Tired of chipping at the brick wall with nothing but his bare fingernails.

He's a bloodied mess, inside, and he wants to sneak off to his own defenses and lay down, recover for a little while.

*Will* he survive?

For the first time since this summer, Richard Castle isn't so sure he can survive loving her.

* * *

><p>Despite his doubts, despite the deep weariness that slumps his shoulders and the meaningful silence that settled between them back at the Old Haunt's booth, Castle still decides to walk her home.<p>

It would be different if she called a cab, if he could see her off, knowing she'll be safe.

But when Beckett shakes her head, her dark locks of hair shimmering, and declares that she wants to walk, wants to enjoy the cool night air, it's not even a question of whether or not he's going.

His feet simply follow hers, helplessly bound to her side, his stride set to accommodate hers.

It's New York City, of course, so the sky is not starry like it would be in say, Kansas, but they can still catch a glimpse or two of far-away planets. Castle finds himself wondering if there's life out there, people going through this same, complicated business of love, people with life and problems and children of their own.

He's always wanted to believe, he's always been that enthusiastic guy who loves sci-fi and aliens and Asimov, but he's not so sure now. Not so sure he would wish anyone to go through what he's going through.

What if he can't convince Kate?

An icy feeling cracks open in his chest, weaves a web around his heart, cold and tight. If he can't convince her that he's worth it, that they're worth it – if he can't persuade Kate, the only woman who's ever really mattered?

What's his life worth then?

Despair opens its large, dark mouth inside him, looking to swallow him whole, to crush him between its powerful jaws.

And his daughter is going to Stanford in January. Yeah. His misery's complete. Castle hangs his head, tries to focus on his shoes, their soft thump on the sidewalk, the way the moonlight shines off the leather.

He needs something from Kate that she's not willing to give, some assurance, a factual promise. Not words, no. He won't take Kate's words at face value anymore. Words have lost some of their charm, some of the power they've always held for him.

What good are words, if she can wake up someday and have forgotten all about his?

He knows what she was saying, that day at the swings, but it's not enough. His heart has grown doubtful, guarded; his heart demands evidence and a solid case before it can trust her again.

As if on cue, a light hand nudges at his, soft, pliant fingers sliding across his palm, and Rick's head jerks up, disbelieving. Kate is not looking at him, of course; she's staring straight ahead, the elegant lines of her profile standing out against the night's obscurity.

But it *is* her hand in his, firmly holding on, the tip of her warm thumb ghosting his knuckles.

He's lost.

What does this mean? Does she want him now? Can she just change her mind, flip sides so easily? Is he supposed to wait on her, let her try him on to see if he fits, like Cinderella with her glass slipper?

Anger flares inside him, a hot, righteous anger, springing from the exhaustion that nests in his chest. He wants to take back his hand; he's about to –

And then, just as suddenly, his anger's gone. Her fingers feel good, curled under his; they feel good and he's weak, he's desperate, he's in love.

It strikes him in this moment, the needy quality of his love, the physical, throbbing ache for her. It wasn't like that before; sure, he was attracted to Beckett when he started riding along with the NYPD, but he could live without her then, could look at other women with some interest still.

He's not that man anymore. Oh, the childish petulance is still there, but the rest of the shallow playboy is gone, dead. Buried. Even last year, when she was with Josh, he gave her space, he didn't push – there wasn't this beat of whiny need inside his chest, or this tingling, burning desire in his fingertips.

Or if there was, it was dormant. Now it's awakened, it's powerful, and it pulses through his body, imperious, demanding.

He wants to blame it on their kiss in the Reverend's office; but he can't fool himself. It has more to do with that picture he has tried so hard to forget, the picture of Kate's pale face against the bright, green grass, the thin thread of her life coming apart in his helpless hands.

Castle was nonchalant before. He thought he had all the time in the world; he thought he could wait on Kate, let this slow seduction go on until she surrendered. Now he feels trapped in his own life, timed; he feels that every second he doesn't spend with her is a wasted one.

Kate's fingers tighten on his: he wonders if she feels the same.

Belatedly, he realizes that they've reached her building; Beckett is looking at him, her eyes dark and unfathomable, bewitching abysses.

This is just the saddest part of it all: the fact that she wants him back.

She's turned the key in the lock already, and she's leaning against the door to keep it open. Her hand seems in no hurry to leave his.

She watches him a moment longer, and Castle lets her, because he has no idea what's going on. His haunting, deeply rooted longing for her is still warring with his wariness and lingering remnants of irritation.

"Not a black hole?" She asks at last, her voice so low that he has to strain towards it in order to make out the words.

Oh. _Oh_.

_Really?_

He shakes his head, wordless but resolute. No, it can't be a black hole: this thing between them doesn't absorb heat. It generates it.

Heat. Need. Love. And the myriad other emotions that are raging in his chest.

But he doesn't say this. Kate's lips twitch; the street lamps throw gentle shadows on her face, making her soft expression into a smile.

She draws closer; every inch she takes towards him increases his difficulty to breathe. Her mouth presses to his ear, his cheek, his jaw. Castle holds his breath, expecting to wake any minute now.

"Wanna come up?" She suggests, the words raw and raspy like she's forcefully pulled them out of her throat.

And, like the idiot he is, he nods yes. His brain is chanting _This is wrong this is wrong this is wrong_ but he doesn't care, doesn't even have a parcel of his attention to give to the alarmed call - subjugated, mesmerized as he is by Kate Beckett, the dark brilliance of her eyes, the sharp, exotic lines of her cheekbones.

She tugs on his hand and he follows her inside, into the elevator, out of it.

They don't speak.

Words would ruin it, would break this suspended, fragile moment – words would give this meaning and reality, turn it into something that Kate has expressly said she isn't ready for.

What are they doing, then?

Castle is vaguely aware that he should man up, be the responsible one. Push her away. Beckett is clearly not herself; he has no idea what is prompting her, but there's one thing he knows for sure. Kate never changes her mind this quickly. She needs time to think, time to process, and –

Oh, god. Are those her hands, sliding under his shirt, splaying on his ribs? They're cool, fresh like spring water; he shivers hard, parts his lips to suck in a ragged breath.

But instead of oxygen he gets Kate's rich, demanding mouth, her swirling tongue that leaves him dizzy, drunk with taste and sensation. She's a ferocious enemy, a soldier who never lets up, who pushes him, corners him, until he's pressed to the wall and has no other option but pushing back, claiming her, hands and tongue and lips marking her as his.

By the time they stumble into her bedroom, he's managed to get her undressed. Her pale skin glistens in the dark, and he can't get enough, can't get enough of her, the way she feels against him, her breathy moans, her searching hands, her ragged exhalations hot against his neck.

He can't say that he loves her? He'll have to show her instead.

And when Kate arches under him, a hand clawing at his shoulder and the other a tight fist on the cotton sheets, her cheeks flushed, her lips parted in soundless pleasure, he stares hard, intent on burning the sight into his mind. This memory as a talisman, a lighthouse to come back to in darker times: Kate Beckett offered, bare, coming apart in his arms.

It's a costly effort to hold back those words scratching his throat, those words that want out. (Again.)

_I love you._

* * *

><p>When he wakes up, of course, she's gone.<p>

Rick lets his eyelids slide shut again, a pathetic protection against the harsh, unforgiving morning light, against the misery that starts to throb in his chest.

He forces himself to breathe in and out, slow and measured.

He expected this. He should have known better last night, known better than to come up to her apartment, take her unvoiced offer. The sensation of her skin against his, smooth and warm, welcoming, comes back to him clear and sharp.

But, no, he doesn't regret this.

It's too late for regrets anyway. He wishes… He wishes he had a way to know what Kate is thinking, how she feels about this. She abandoned herself so completely; he cannot believe that this is a one-time thing for her.

Did she see right through him? Did she guess what place he was in last night, feel his need for reassurance? Did she deliberately give him the cool, healing balm of last night to apply against the throbbing memory of her three-month silence, to protect his heart from whatever ache might be coming its way?

This was a mistake. He doesn't regret it, but it was a mistake to take what she offered.

He groans into the silence and lifts up, opens his eyes. He'd like to imagine she hesitated at the doorway, watched him sleep, debated it. He'd like to think she had a hard time leaving her bed this morning.

But he knows she probably left quickly, eyes averted.

Rick sits on the side of the bed, elbows on his knees, head buried in his hands. He keeps his eyes closed, concentrates on breathing in and out. Slowly. He's gonna have to figure out a way to breathe around her, breathe without feeling the ragged edge of grief.

He doesn't regret it.

With his eyes closed, he sees her wide, surprised eyes as she lay shattered beneath him. And somehow, he no longer sees the green grass, the too-blue sky, no longer sees the black edge of her police uniform, the dark red of her blood. Instead, he sees her pale blue sheets, the riot of her hair across the pillow, their joined hands over her head, the gasp of his name on her lips, the flutter of her eyelashes.

He shivers and sits up, heart pounding. Some of that neediness has sunk back beneath the surface, buried under the crashing wave of last night. Rick gets to his feet.

Her apartment is touched by morning light, forward and brazen light; it looks like her. The whole place, a little severe but safe, contained, in control. Still, he remembers last night, he remembers touching the skin along her ribs and the way she arched, breathless.

Rick heads for the bathroom, flips on the shower, adjusts the temperature. He doesn't regret last night. This can still work. He's going to shower in her bathroom. He's going to hang his towels up next to hers. He's going to use one of her bowls and have some of her cereal. He's going to eat it dry, most likely, and put up a post-it note on her fridge reminding her to get milk.

He's going to punish her a little, by leaving reminders of last night all over her safe, contained apartment. He knows that's what it is, has no compunction about it either. Punish her for doing this to him.

He's going to check her pantry for ingredients and make her some kind of casserole, put it in the fridge, clean out all the styrofoam, leave her instructions on how to heat it up.

He's going to dig the spare key out of the junk drawer in her kitchen, let himself out, and lock it up behind him. He's going to head straight for the 12th after that, and sit down in his chair beside her desk wearing yesterday's clothes.

And he's going to stay there as long as she does, as long as it takes.

Until she notices him. Until she stops running and looks at him.

Until she lets him have her again.

* * *

><p>It's ten in the morning when Kate heads back to her desk and finds him there, sitting in his usual seat, sipping coffee, her takeout cup nestled next to her keyboard. She's walking up from Holding so she sees the back of his head, the collar of his wrinkled blue dress shirt, before he sees her.<p>

Her mouth runs dry. The coffee is from the little place next to her apartment building. The shirt is the one he was wearing last night (_which you yanked off his shoulders_).

She doesn't do anything quite so obvious as stopping dead in her tracks, but her heart stutters even as Kate keeps walking forward. She's got the file on the maintenance man in her hands, freshly processed, and she's got catch-up work to do on a five-week old homicide they never closed, but suddenly her focus has split down the middle, fallen apart.

It was a mistake. It was weakness, and loneliness, and fear clamoring for her attention last night. And his body, the heat of his mouth sucking on her skin-

She sits at her desk and takes a first, too-hot mouthful of her coffee, eyes slipping shut. She found a dark, red mark on her shoulder this morning. From him. Marked. It is all she can do not to let him see her hands shake.

"Mm, thanks," she murmurs, hoping it's gratitude for the coffee (knowing it's not).

When her eyes open, she sees it on his face. Last night. But he nods to the case file in her hand.

"Back to the sanitation worker's murder?"

She swallows her mouthful and nods back. "Vice sent a report in. And the ME came back with a possible weapon-"

"Baseball bat?" he says, lifting his eyebrows.

She shakes her head, feels that flicker of affection and irritation spark in her. "No. Stop with the 'Warriors' theory. It's not the Baseball Furies."

"Yes, but there were those fibers-"

"Not from a pinstripe jersey. Not everything is a movie, Castle."

And even though she doesn't mean them to, her words say things she doesn't realize she's been thinking.

He sighs, too loudly, and leans back in his seat. "But if it were, it would be so awesome. Baseball Furies roaming the streets of New York. Secret gang meetings in Central Park. Trying to get home to Coney Island-"

"Castle. Sanitation worker. Focus." She snaps her fingers in front of his face and he startles, shoots her a grin. His usual grin.

Only now, she's seen that grin in other places, other times, with entirely different meanings. She's seen that grin when she's cried out his name, and he's lifted his head, pleased and predatory. And even though her body flushes to see it, she's at work. She's at work, and that was a mistake she should never, ever be weak enough to let happen again.

Just like that, she's back to Detective Beckett. The sanitation worker's family deserves answers, some kind of peace, and she will channel all of her own restlessness and drive into solving this quickly-growing-cold case.

"Let's look at the timeline again," she says, and stands to flip the board over.

Just like that. Back to Detective Beckett.


	4. Chapter 4

She unlocks her door automatically, even though she should be more aware of her surroundings, bumps her hip against it to crack the seal. The old door sticks when the weather changes.

Kate halts just inside her apartment, the door swinging on its hinges.

Something is wrong. Off.

It's different in here.

Someone has been in her apartment. Someone-

Oh.

She turns and locks the door behind her, shaking her head at herself. Of course. Castle. She left him here this morning; she ran off like a coward, unable to even imagine what might happen when, if, he saw her the morning after.

The morning after the worst possible, most selfish-

Kate shuts out those thoughts again, pushes it all aside. This is her refuge, not the sparring floor. She drops her keys to the table, toes off her shoes, and slides out of the jacket. Her gun is still on her hip as she heads for the kitchen, but she feels like she needs. . .something.

A square of bright yellow, incongruent and crooked, is affixed to her fridge. A post-it note.

_Buy milk._

His handwriting. Kate swallows hard and reaches up to yank it off, but her hand won't do it. Instead, she opens the fridge and finds her eyes gravitating towards the shelf where she keeps her milk, wondering what the date is on the carton.

But the milk isn't there.

A casserole dish is instead.

Another post-it note. Instructions on how to heat it up. Her stomach growls and cramps painfully. She sent Castle home at five, but she stayed at the precinct refamiliarizing herself with the details of the sanitation worker's case until seven-thirty.

She closes the fridge door, suddenly anxious, and abandons the kitchen for the solace of her bedroom. She unclips the holster with her weapon in it, ejects the clip out of habit, puts everything away in its box. She slides the chain with her mother's ring off her head and it clatters into the box from her numb fingers.

When she turns around, she sees all the little changes. Her bed is made with clean sheets, the pillows arranged carefully but completely out of order. The chair beside her nightstand is crookedly facing the window, as if he sat there to put on his shoes and watched the activity in the building next door.

In the bathroom, a large white towel hangs up on the towel bar, it reeks of the bar soap she never uses. The bath mat under her bare toes is still damp; the soap is his soap, she realizes suddenly. She bought bar soap on a whim months and months ago, and it was his? It was his, or he's somehow made it his own, here in her bathroom.

It was a mistake, a tactical error, to leave this morning, a mistake to let him stay at all, but especially to leave him alone to upend every small and private corner of her life.

She puts a hand to her mouth, shuts her eyes. She wants to run but there's no place to run to anymore. He's gotten into everything, put his hands on everything, every space, every intimate and solitary place inside her-

And then she hears a key in the lock, the scrape of the warped wooden door against the frame.

Her heart pounds and she turns her head, as if she can see through furniture, hallway, drywall, studs, to her front door. Her feet are carrying her there despite herself, her hands shake as she walks down the hall.

Cool and trembling, tears dampen her cheeks; she's been crying and she doesn't know why, or how long, only that she brushes at them but they keep coming.

She stands in the open space of her living room and sees him in her kitchen, tapping the post-it note on the fridge with a finger, playing with it.

She couldn't speak if she wanted to.

He must hear her, or expect her, because he turns around as he opens the refrigerator door, a jug of milk in his hands.

He got the milk.

* * *

><p>When he sees the tears on her face, everything goes still.<p>

The anxiety, the worry, the fear, the not-knowing - they all settle down, melt away.

He wasn't sure, when he started out, that buying milk and showing up at her door would be such a good idea. And when he got here, he half-hoped that she was still at the station; he unlocked the door and headed inside like it was his place, like she might be gone.

But seeing her standing in the living room, staring at him like he's an apparition, like he's been conjured up out of her own mind, it gives him confidence.

If she's got tears on her face, then he got through to her. He affected her. He made his mark. And kicking him out now would hurt her too.

"Hey, Kate."

She stares at him, wordless. Another tear tracks down her cheek, her lips have parted.

He doesn't know what to say now, but he knows what he wants to do. And now that he's had her once, now that he's seen the way heat comes radiating from her eyes when he's above her, there's no way she can stop him.

"That was a mistake, Kate," he starts, turning to put the milk in the fridge and shutting the door.

When he turns back around, her face is white, her eyes black holes. She looks. . .leeched of color. Of hope. She stands very still as he approaches.

"That was a mistake on your part, letting me in. Because now I'm never gonna let you kick me out again."

She trembles and closes her eyes. He forgets how fragile she is at the heart, how easily she can break. She's so good at hiding it, that he often mistakes her strength for an inability to be broken. But that's not true, because the woman before him now is still trying to hold all the pieces of herself together, the pieces that shattered when her mother was murdered.

"Let me help you, Kate. Let me. . ." He leans in and presses his mouth to her cheekbone, licks the salt from her skin. "Let me do this." He lifts his hands and cups her shoulders, brushing his thumbs across the material of her shirt as he kisses the other cheek, nudges her nose. "Let me do this again."

Kate opens her mouth, but does nothing to stop him. Castle takes it as invitation and devotes his attention to the warm, soft curve of her lips, the moist heat he wants to memorize.

When she lifts her hands to his waist, he exalts. He can't help sliding his hand to her back and pulling her against him, her hips to his; the way they fit together is exquisite.

He keeps pushing. "I need an answer, Kate. I need to hear you say it." His mouth against her mouth, he pauses, a hand at her neck, his fingers sliding through her hair.

She breathes hotly, her hands between them, her eyes closed.

"Say it. Say you'll let me-"

"Yes." Breathless. "Yes. Again."

* * *

><p>Castle is slow and meticulous this time. The rush of despair from last night, the frenzy of overwhelming need is a memory now; he's seen her tears, seen what he does to her.<p>

There's confidence running in his veins instead of yesterday's anguish. It's anticipation and excitement that make his hands shake, not the desperate hunger, a dark pit in his stomach.

So he takes his time.

He trails his hands across her ribs until she gasps, keeps his touch light and teasing until her hips buck from wanting him.

Kate.

He caresses and touches her and murmurs her name, hot and heavy against her skin, until she breaks, fragments in a million little pieces that light up his world like stars in the night sky. He lets her catch her breath, a trembling _Castle_ escaping her lips.

It's still Castle, but that's fine. He'll be patient. He will nudge, and wait, until he becomes Rick.

He can wait. Tonight tastes like victory, unexpected victory; it feels like he's demolished a whole section of the wall, made a breach that cannot be undone. Tonight tastes salty and delicious like the sheen of sweat on Kate's skin.

He kisses her again, slow and luxurious, her mouth an appealing dark red color in the half-light; she grazes his lower lip with her teeth, curls an imperious hand at his neck.

Her free hand wanders, traces random lines on his abdomen, edges lower. This time, Castle is the one to gasp.

And then it's not about planning or military jargon anymore.

* * *

><p>The next morning, it's an inconsiderate ray of sunlight landing right on his face that nudges him awake, makes him peer an unwilling eyelid open. His face is half-buried in the pillow, a soft, Kate-scented pillow that he feels vaguely inclined to take home with him.<p>

Kate.

Last night, as he struggled fiercely – and failed – to escape the welcoming arms of sleep, he threw his hand across the bed, his arm across her, trapping her in the hope that she'd have to wake him to be able to leave.

His fingers close around a cold, empty sheet.

No such luck.

He hoped-

No, honestly, there wasn't much hope. Despite her absence, this morning, unlike yesterday morning, feels good. Rick rolls over onto his back and blinks through the last haze of sleep until he can focus on the cracks in her ceiling, the lines running to the light fixture.

Time to up the ante. Phase two, as it were.

He hasn't had to work so hard for something in ages - well, since he had to work so hard to gain Kate's trust on the ride-along. Kate's always made him work for it. Why should this be different?

Today, though, he won't go in to the 12th quite so soon. He'll get Ram from the coffee cart in the lobby to carry up a cup to Beckett, and then he'll have the pastry shop deliver her a bear claw. Just, the little things, right?

Rick glances at the clock. Six in the morning. Maybe he heard the door close? He'll text her to say he's got an idea for the new novel and wants to write it while it's fresh - entirely true - and then he'll spend the morning in her apartment again, making himself at home.

A grin splits his face, imagining it. He's tempted to go home and grab his laptop, come back and set up work space at her table, but instead, he'll just write longhand, leave notes scattered over the tabletop, his own novel's timeline.

It's early days yet, for Nikki, so he doesn't need the laptop to write, just a storyboard to map it out. Yes. That's it exactly. He'll tack up his storyboard on the wall just over her table, let her see it all coming together in her own home. He grins wider, laces his hands behind his head.

Last night, she let his mouth travel the pilgrimage of her skin, humbling himself in the valleys and exalting over the peaks. He moved slowly, adoring her, supplicating himself in the sanctuary of her hips, offering himself at the altar of her mouth. Theirs was a sacred thing, set apart, and he made her know it, breathed life into it with all of his being.

When she came apart in his arms, it was only to be made new, two made one. _Flesh of my flesh._

Yeah, it's melodramatic and she'd roll her eyes at him, but he knows it without having to examine it, knows it on faith alone, not by sight, because in that moment, when she not only surrendered but invited him into communion with her, when he himself broke apart as well, dissolved, was washed with the cleansing tide of this thing between them, he found it ringing through him, between them: love.

He loves her, and it is love, a third entity in the room, a holy trinity.

She can't control it; he can't hide it.

And this morning, he's left with the taste of her ecstasy on his tongue, the smell of her incense in his skin. He wants her again, languid and reverent, and he wants her again, needy and desperate. His love.

So here's the plan for today, the second day's incursion into her apartment.

He'll shower here again. He'll work on his chapter outline, hang the storyboard above her table, spread out, claim his space. He remembers, suddenly, sucking hard and hot on the skin under her jaw, using his teeth and the grip of his hand to make her writhe under him. He hopes he left a dark, vicious mark on her fair skin.

He'll head into the precinct around noon, bring her lunch to soothe her. He'll have to wear the same shirt, pants, maybe go commando because those boxers. . .whew.

He hopes tomorrow she's still in her bed when he wakes, because his clothes are going to get ripe pretty quickly if this 'great escape' plan of hers keeps up.

* * *

><p>"Bro. Is that yesterday's shirt?"<p>

Kate's eyes cut to the hall in front of the elevator, and there he is. Castle in his rumpled dress shirt, the wrinkled jeans. She imagines she can smell him from here (surely that's not imagination, surely it really is the heady mix of two days worth of. . .encounters). He smells like her bedroom. He smells like *her* in her bedroom. The two of them together in her bed. All pheromones and musk.

Kate squeezes her hand around the dry erase marker, looks back to the murder board, to her boys around the murder board.

"Yes, it is," Castle says, offers nothing more.

Esposito and Ryan exchange glances and then look immediately to her, whether with knowledge or protectiveness, (because he's either been with her or he's been with some blonde bimbo). Either way, she's not sure. She stonewalls them, giving nothing back.

Castle's voice rushes into the silence. "I was writing," he explains. "A lot."

Her stomach ripples with the sound of his voice, an explanation to the boys and to her as well for arriving at noon.

"You couldn't go to your closet and get clean clothes?"

"I showered."

He showered. At her place? Again. The fist around her heart spasms.

"But I brought lunch."

"Dude," Ryan exclaims. "You brought food!"

Esposito wrinkles his nose, reaching for the plastic bag in Castle's hand. "I'll take that. Nuh-uh." He puts a palm up to keep Castle in his place. Esposito wipes his hand down his own shirt, stepping back. "You stay there. Let me eat before you come in with that odor. And dude, that's not just yesterday's shirt. That's the *day before* yesterday's shirt."

The flutter starts in her chest and she turns her back on them. Back to the murder board.

"Beckett," Castle says, her name all kinds of questions. Why not 'Kate' like last-?

_No. Stop_.

She doesn't have his answers, but Ryan is hesitating halfway towards the conference room, unsure now whether or not they're dismissed. "Boss?"

Kate caps her marker and turns slowly. "Lunch, boys."

Castle's face is tinged with a smile that doesn't quite manifest; anything more and she's not sure what she might do.

This morning she had to slide so carefully out of her own bed, get dressed in the dark with her bathroom door closed. She's got her jacket on still, with the high collar, because she found the over-ripe, red-purple mark at her jaw, just below her ear. She remembers, all too clearly, his mouth there, his teeth, the distracting and seductive movements of his hands as he sucked on her skin. She keeps her hair behind her ears, hoping the fullness, the slight curl, will hide it.

Some things, though, can't be hidden forever.

She had coffee this morning, rushed upstairs by the guy with the cart; the older man placed it on a napkin on her desk. On the napkin was written (she assumes by the coffee guy because it's not Castle's handwriting): _Let it never be said that I neglected to fulfill any of your needs._

And though she folded the napkin and slid it into her pocket (only because she didn't want the boys to see it in the trash, that's all), the bear claw appeared immediately after the coffee, obvious and obtrusive. Ryan and Esposito both gave her looks. And while she ate, her mind touched on the words on that napkin, again and again, both sensuous and practical, but also amusing; she could hear him saying it in her ear as he might lift his body up over her, smiling like he had last night.

Now, he's here. He's been writing, he says, writing out a new idea for the next book (as his text read), but all she can imagine is the smut he's *got* to be writing after last night. What else could it be? It keeps buzzing in her brain, her awareness of it, him, lighting on last night over and _over_, and she'd like to think it's because the sex was just so amazing - and _ohh_ it was - but she knows, deep down, that it's because it's him.

It's Castle.

Thinking his name, not even having to say it out loud, just thinking it makes her stomach flutter.

How can she eat lunch when he sits beside her in the conference room, joking and taking the ribbing from the boys, when she keeps expecting, at any moment, to feel his fingertips on her knee?

He doesn't. She eats her food slowly, silently.

She has nothing to say. She doesn't know what they're doing, doesn't know why he keeps ignoring every stop sign she throws up. She's already told him she's not able to do this, but he keeps showing up.

What is she supposed to do about this? So she does nothing and hopes - somehow - that it melts away. Disappears.

She wants it to go back to how it used to be.

* * *

><p>Against all expectations – especially her own, because Castle's proximity is certainly *not* doing anything to help – they find a new lead on the sanitation worker's case.<p>

And it's Castle who does it, of course. The man is haunting her, invading every cell of her brain, but apparently his can function just fine.

She's looking at him and he's looking at the murder board, and she sees the exact moment when his brow furrows, when his eyes light up in interest, sparks of understanding flying around.

"What if we're looking at this the wrong way? I mean, what if Cooper *was* killed because of his job?"

Kate tilts her head. She can think of a number of objections, but for some reason she holds back on them. She wants to hear what he has to say.

The writer glances at her, like he's making sure he has her attention, and then blurts excitedly, "We've crossed out all of his colleagues –"

"Yeah, because they all have alibis."

"Yes, but that guy, Stewart Boyd. That guy has a record. A history of buying and selling drugs. Suppose our victim is doing his job, and finds Boyd with a client? And suppose he threatens to go to the police?"

"Castle, we checked Boyd's alibi." She actually likes his theory, but –

"Yeah, but come on. It's entirely possible that he got his wife to lie."

"What about the neighbours who confirm they heard them, uh, *have fun* that night?"

"Could have been the wife with someone else. Could have been entirely different people. Or even a porn movie with the sound turned way up."

Beckett chews on her lip. "Boyd said he's been clean for three years now."

"Well, it can't hurt to have a talk with his sponsor then."

He lifts an eyebrow, challenging, and Kate finds herself slowly nodding and reaching for her jacket. He's right: it can't hurt. They have no leads, and this is a viable theory.

"All right," she agrees. "We'll see if we can find his sponsor. But it might be a wild-goose chase, Castle."

He shrugs, offers her a smile that does untimely things to her heart. "Better than no chase at all, isn't it?"

She can't really fault that statement. But when they get in the elevator, and his arm brushes hers, sends a jolt of electricity running through her spine, she can't help but hope that this isn't what they are. A wild-goose chase.

* * *

><p>Finding Stewart Boyd's sponsor proves more difficult than Kate had anticipated, but talking to him also turns out to be more fruitful than she would have guessed. The man, a David Murphy, hasn't seen Boyd in the last eight months; his last meeting with the sanitation worker didn't go so well.<p>

"Did you think he was using again?" Kate asks prudently, always wary of things that seem too good to be true.

"No, no, he was clean. I'm sure of it. It was something else. Stewart was never the sharing kind, you know, but he had grown even more secretive of late. Like he was concocting some sort of master plan. But he's not a bad fellow, detective. Whatever he was up to, I'm sure it couldn't be that bad."

Well, the detective begs to differ. Whatever Stewart Boyd was up to might very well have gotten his co-worker killed.

She thanks Murphy and waits until she's out of the pub to turn to Castle, assess the expression on his face. He looks pleased enough, of course, and intrigued. It's a good look on him.

Oh, she has to stop this.

A glance at her father's watch gives her the perfect excuse. "Wow, seven already, is it? You should probably go home, Castle."

"What?" He protests indignantly. "This has just gotten interesting, and you wanna kick me out?"

"I'm not *kicking you out*. We're not going to get any farther than this tonight. I'll just head back to the precinct, brief Ryan and Esposito on this, and go home myself."

"Will you really?"

Sarcasm is heavy in his voice, but she thinks there's something else in his eyes. Interest? Oh, god.

"What are you, my dad?" She shoots back, trying to keep her voice light, trying to erase the spark of heat in her belly. He's most certainly not her dad.

"Hopefully not," he answers, blue eyes twinkling, a smirk playing on his lips.

She *has* to stop this.

"Go home, Castle. Get some rest, spend time with your daughter. How long since you last spoke to her, hmm?"

It's a low blow, and the smile on his lips wavers. She steels herself.

"Come on, I'll drop you off."

"I can take a cab. Don't want to slow you down."

He sounds a little bit resentful, and she can't blame him.

"Ok, fine. See you tomorrow, Castle."

He just gives her a nod, and strides off. She's reminded of that day at the book signing, when he walked past her, and she had to call after him.

She doesn't call now, but it takes everything she has to restrain herself.

* * *

><p>She leaves the precinct two hours later, enjoying the peace and quiet as she drives home, walks up the stairs. She still has mixed feelings about guilt-tripping Castle over Alexis, but after all, he's playing dirty too. Showering at her place, leaving her post-it notes.<p>

It's a relief to turn the key in the lock, to get inside her apartment. Home. Safe. Finally.

She forgot to take her spare key back from Castle this morning, but she refuses to let that bother her. Forgot is an overstatement anyway – it was early, the room was dark, and getting dressed without waking him was already enough of a mission for her to forego the spare key.

And of course, she wasn't going to mention it in front of Ryan or Esposito.

Shedding her coat and her purse, Kate steps out of her heels and stretches. Her eyes travel to the kitchen without her authorization, stop on the fridge. His post-it is still here. She couldn't bring herself to take it off this morning, and of course Castle wasn't going to.

The rest of the kitchen looks untouched, though, and a strange mixture of relief and sadness spreads in her belly. What was she expecting?

Then she turns to the living room.

And gasps.

The wall over the table has been taken over. No other word for it. Sheets of paper all over, post-its, index cards, notes in different sizes, different colors. All in his handwriting, of course.

Her eye catches the word Nikki, and she realizes with a shiver that it's the outline of his next novel she's faced with. His own storyboard.

Richard Castle's storyboard.

Kate has to order her feet not to move; as overwhelmed as she is by the sight, shocked by the invasion of her home, there's still that tiny fan-girl thrill running down her spine, dying to get closer, to decipher plot lines and simply *read*.

Messed up. She is so messed up. This is exactly why she can't do this, why she has to stop it before it's too late. Ah. It might already be too late. At least, stop before any more damage can be done, then.

Castle will keep pushing, because he's Castle, because he doesn't know what else to do, but she can't take much more of this. Right now, she's struggling to get some air past her constricted throat, struggling to remain upright.

Richard Castle in her home. Richard Castle writing in her living-room. She has to close her eyes against it, a fierce battle raging inside her. She wants this to become the norm; she wants him gone. She wants to be left in peace, wants quiet and solitude; she wants his mouth trailing fire down her neck.

They're irreconcilable desires, and she's drowning here.

"Kate?"

Oh, _fuck._

Her eyes fly open without her permission: Castle is standing in front of her, still wearing the blue dress shirt from the night before, the same jeans. Damn him.

Where did he even come from? She thought she was alone, she thought –

The soft lighting of the kitchen draws a complex combination of shadows on his face, erasing some of the lines, deepening the rest. It's… not unattractive. Even his eyes seem deeper, a darker blue. Midnight skies instead of a sunny afternoon.

He watches her attentively, this observing stare that makes her feel naked, transparent. A flicker of concern crosses the rugged handsomeness of his features; he takes a step towards her.

Kate takes a step back. It's instinctive; she can't help it. She can't do this again. She can't let him…

"Kate," he says gently, and the fear and love laced with his words travel straight to her heart, slice right through it.

She shakes her head, her mouth dry, her words gone.

"Kate." It's half-command, half-supplication this time. With hints of despair that remind her of their first night.

Oh god, their first night –

No.

"I can't, Castle," she manages finally. She sounds breathless, and she hates it. "I'm sorry, I –"

"Don't," he begs. *Begs*. "Please don't. This is good, Kate. This is right. This is what we should be."

She's shaking her head again, because even though she can't refute the undeniable truth in his words, she still won't be convinced.

"This is too much," she forces herself to say, the words tasting like ashes in her mouth, her tongue powerless to soothe the raw dryness of her lips. "This is too much for me, Castle. I can't. Not right now. I told you –"

"I made dinner," he interrupts, urgent, pleading. "Let's just eat, and then…"

And then they can fight? He doesn't finish his sentence, and Kate sees the defeat at the back of his eyes.

But half her mind has stopped at the word dinner, and she suddenly realizes that the delicious smell that had her mouth watering when she walked out of the elevator actually came from her apartment. From her own oven.

He made dinner.

Her stomach gives an enthusiastic growl, and she tries to remember the last time she ate. But no, _no_. She can't get distracted here. She turns away from the kitchen; her eyes fall on Castle's face, on the Nikki Heat debauchery on her wall, above his shoulder.

"Please."

The word escapes her before she's fully aware. But it seems to work, seems to get a reaction from him, and Kate goes with it.

"Please, Castle. I need… I need space. Just. Give me tonight, okay?"

He's drawing closer again, hands aiming for her; she sidesteps him, raises her forearms. A thin protection against the force of his love, the strength of his determination.

"Don't, Castle."

He stops, and for the first time today, he looks unsure. She should be glad; instead her heart plummets at the boyish, heartbroken look on his face.

Her body buzzes with the need to hold him, kiss the sadness away; Kate controls that desire, cages it. _No_.

She can't say anything more (her voice would break) and she can't move (her legs would give way) but she figures if she just stays still, ultimately he'll get it.

And he does.

Castle looks at her once more, sorrow and resolution making for a painful cocktail on his face, and he moves away, away from her, towards the door.

She watches him put on his shoes, shrug on his coat; she notices the slow, deliberate gestures, the time he gives her to change her mind.

But she watches him walk out, and she doesn't say anything.

And the door closes, with a sound like a moan, final. Sad.

The only thing she can hear is the heavy thump of her heart. Kate remains alone in her kitchen, frozen, surrounded by the aroma of the dinner he cooked.

Because he loves her.


	5. Chapter 5

As soon as the door shuts behind him, he realizes that he's made a mistake, a tactical error in the siege of Kate Beckett.

He's either pushed too hard or given up too soon.

Castle clenches his fist in his jacket pocket, pulls out her spare key. Which he stole. But he still can't bring himself to lock the door after him. He should. There are people out there who tried to kill her, may still be trying to kill her, but while putting a door between them doesn't seem like surrender, locking it definitely does.

Her hallway is badly lighted, and the bare wood groans as he shifts his weight, hesitating. He can't move forward, can't go back. It smells like dinner; the knuckles on his right hand sting with the scratch he got trying to tear open a package of seasoning.

He waffles there, outside her door, trying to work up the resolve to leave, to do as she asked, even as everything in him tells him to go back inside. Trying to figure out which one it is, pushing too hard or giving up too soon-

Does it matter? Either option, this doesn't look fixable tonight. But if he leaves now, it's back to the status quo for them, back to not talking about nearly freezing to death and kissing undercover.

This time, it'll be not talking about two nights worth of-

Unacceptable. Completely unacceptable. They are already in this, already doing this. If he leaves now, then he knows it's their last chance. The weight of that fear has shape and taste in his mouth.

And then he realizes - at the first sign of real active resistance from Kate, he folded like a house of cards. What an idiot. She needs him to be the strong one here, not the one that runs. She can run enough for the both of them.

Damn. He's an ass. He's no better at this than she is.

That's it. His chest tight with need, Rick twists the door knob and pushes in. He collides with her in the doorway, both of them stumbling into each other, bodies close.

She's crying; he can feel her wet cheeks against his neck.

"Kate." He holds on to her, an arm around her shoulders, one around her lower back, and pulls her into a hug. She's stiff, her arms still folded across her chest.

He was wrong. It's not one or the other but both. It's pushing her too far and giving up on her too soon, both at the same time.

She tries to step back, but he squeezes harder, kisses the side of her face with a chaste brush of his lips.

"You were coming after me," he says softly. It's not a question; she was opening the door at the same time he was.

Rick pulls back, unfolds her right arm, traps her fisted hand in his. Glancing into her shuttered face, he uncurls her fingers from around her keys. He takes them from her wordlessly and tosses them to the kitchen counter. They skitter across the top and stop beside the sink; Kate's turned her face away from him.

"Kate," he apologizes, dropping his hands and stepping back. He can't leave, but he can give her a little physical space. "I won't stay away from you. Won't leave here without saying-"

She makes a noise in her throat. "Castle, stop. I told you, I can't do this-"

"You already are," he laughs, desperation tainting his voice. "We're already doing this."

"You tricked me into-"

He raises an eyebrow at her, leans back against the kitchen counter; he takes offense at her word choice. "You mean, I *seduced* you."

Her jaw works, glittering eyes meet his. Some of that hard-as-steel straightness is back in her spine. "Yes."

"You seduced me first," he shrugs.

Her jaw drops; she spins around and stalks around the kitchen island.

"Why were coming after me, Kate?"

"I don't know." She yanks on the oven door; Castle can smell the rich aroma of chicken and seasonings. His stomach growls.

"I think you do know," he says.

Kate reaches in like she's going to grab it bare-handed; Castle stays her movement, pushes her out of the way. He pulls an oven mit from the drawer, glances back to see the flush of embarassment on her face. She grabs two plates. A knot forms in his throat and he swallows past it, putting the casserole dish on the counter, moving to accept the plate from her. An invitation to stay and eat. At least that.

"I don't know, Castle," she says, her voice low and hard.

He accepts the spatula from her hand and scoops a piece of chicken onto her plate first, then his, adds the sauce. She stands beside him; he can feel the tension rippling from her, her movements jerky.

This isn't what he planned. "Kate. You have to know-"

"I don't," she cuts in, walking away from him, grabbing forks. "Don't say anything. Don't ruin-"

"Kate," he sighs at her back, but follows her to the table, taking the fork she holds out as she goes. He did say he wanted to eat first and fight later, didn't he? Best abide by that.

Kate stumbles to a halt in front of his storyboard; he pauses behind her, trying not to stab her with the fork.

She turns to him. "Are you - can we - is it okay to sit here?"

He takes a moment to wipe the smile off his face and moves around her to an empty chair. "Yeah, course. Sit down." He likes inviting her to sit down at her own table.

She does, but the moment her plate is on the table, she drops her head into her hands, eyes closed. Castle waits, watching her. They are on the edge of a line she's somehow drawn in the sand; he knows that. He just hopes he's managed to erase those lines, knock down that wall.

She rakes a hand through her hair and lifts her head, her eyes shadowed, deep lines in her face.

"Eat your dinner, Kate," he says softly, and drops his eyes to his own plate.

After a moment, he hears her start eating too.

* * *

><p>She doesn't taste anything.<p>

She's not ready for this. She can't do this right now, not as the person she is. She's too damaged, too ready to flee, too biting, too cynical about life, too willing to quit on him. She'd quit right now, if he would just give her the space to-

Except, when he did leave, something needy and desperate rose in her and pushed her feet to the door after him. And he was already there.

Kate bites her lip. Will he *ever* give her a moment's peace for the rest of their lives?

_No_.

But he should. For his own sake.

But he won't, something tells her.

She's going to ruin it. She's going to ruin this, the best thing that's ever happened to her. (Best thing? Him. Not the sex, not the way their bodies lace together, but him.) She's *already* ruined it. She invited him up and then didn't have the fortitude, the will power, to kiss him with a promise and make him go home.

If she had just stopped at a kiss. That small promise of hope, that light in the darkness. Now they're long past promises. Promises are already broken, and the moment he figures that out, she won't be able to keep him.

_You can't have him, Kate. Not yet. You're not good enough for this, not up to the work of a real relationship with a man you love. The man._

Her food is gritty, turning to sand as she swallows.

* * *

><p>He rinses their plates and puts them in the dishwasher, keeping his ears open for sounds from her, any clue that might tell him where they go next. He wants to kiss her mouth and feel her chest brush his, her hands at his back; he wants last night and the night before to go on forever.<p>

But it's very possible he'll never have that again.

When he turns back around, she's still sitting at the table, her fingers playing with a blank index card, her eyes staring into the distance. He wonders what she sees, if she sees anything at all.

Well, he's still here, isn't he? He's fed her, he's managed to make her admit she was coming after him, and she's waiting for whatever comes next. Just like he is.

Rick doesn't want to talk anymore; he's afraid of what might be said. He wants to wrap his arms around her and take her back to her room and show her, again and again, what they are, how good they are.

_I don't know what we are. . .We never talk about it._

Maybe that's the problem. All he has left is showing her, and showing her never solved anything either. But words? Words are elusive and hard to pin down. They can be forgotten. She can't possibly forget the way her body responded to his, the hot trail of her fingers down his back, can't possibly forget how it is when they come together, so good, so right.

He approaches her slowly, standing over her and studying her hunched shoulders, the line of her finger as it traces the edge of the index card. Castle reaches his hand out to her, offering help up, extending an unspoken invitation. She glances up at him, and he's startled to see tears on her cheeks again.

"Castle." She swallows hard. Her voice is raw. Another tear leaks from her eye. "Why are you doing this to me?"

Oh, God.

He drops his hand; he wants to kiss her tears, he wants to make love to her and wake with her in the morning to make love to her again. He wants it so badly it might shatter him. And there's no chance in hell she's going to let him do that, is she?

"Take it easy, Kate," he says finally. "It's okay." _I won't push._

He'll promise her anything, do anything, to not hurt her. Ever again.

Even if it kills him.

He has to close his eyes to remember how to breathe. His heart is pounding, a buzz in his ears from the blood rushing through his veins. He should turn around; he should go. This was a mistake and he-

Her arms slide around his neck.

His eyes snap open; she's up against his body, the long, trembling length of her.

"Kate?"

She presses her face into his chest; he can feel the damp seep into the material of his shirt. Her fingers play with the hair at the nape of his neck.

Slowly, his hands find her back, press her against him, dazed. She feels hot and restless, her hands moving, her body shifting, her breath skirting his jaw as she turns her head to his. He might - he might fall apart if she leaves now, if she moves away from him.

She leaves an open-mouth kiss on his neck, drops her arms to run her hands down his chest, her fingers trailing against his sides. His skin ripples with the touch and he lowers his head to meet her mouth.

The kiss is deep, intent, filled with knowledge. She breaks their lips only to come at him again, a different angle, as if testing a hypothesis; he hopes he holds true. Kate lifts on her toes and rocks her hips against his, her tongue echoing the movement.

Castle breaks the heat of their fused mouths and trails down her neck, past her clavicle to bite the strip of skin at the edge of her shirt, nudging aside her collar with his nose and licking the mark. She curls around him with a dark sound, her hands tightening on his lower back. He can't let go of her, can't possibly let go. She's his; he hasn't lost her yet. Not yet.

Tonight is a gift, he knows. He can see it in her face, in the drying tears, feel it in the panicky clench of her hands. She's giving him this one last night, because she's seen the terrible grief on his face, one last night-

But it's too late. He's already here. No last night about it. He can't give her up.

Rick lifts his head and kisses her mouth again, herding her slowly to the wall where he's taped up his storyboard, her back hitting it suddenly. Her legs part; she bears down on his thigh and drags her lips against his jaw. "Why are you doing this to me?"

He groans and pulls back, blinking hard, pushing the need back down, trying to be good-

Kate hooks his neck with an arm, tugs him back down to her, sucks on his lower lip with a growl.

"Kate-" he pants, uable to stop himself from pressing her harder against the wall, leaning into her, as if to pin her there, a caught butterfly, her legs spread like wings. "Kate, please-"

She undulates against him, her fingers under his shirt, raking up his back. He buries his mouth in the hollow at the base of her throat, works his way down, suckling at her skin, the slope of her breast. Her foot hooks around his knee.

"I don't know how you're doing this-" She grunts as his lips touch the edge of her bra, his fingers work at the buttons of her shirt. "How did you do this?" She's breathless and arousing and he can't possibly let her go.

"Do this?" He brushes his cheek against the so-soft skin, touches his lips to it like a whisper. He can't understand her. "We're already doing this. We've *been* doing this. We'll never stop doing this."

She cradles his jaw and pushes at him, lifting his head so that he's looking into the dark depths of her eyes, her irises as black as her pupils. The vulnerability on her face makes his chest ache. "I'm going to hurt you, Castle. I'm going to say something stupid or - or - or get shot again, and I don't-"

"Not having you only makes it worse. Not having you is time wasted, an awful, hollow waste and I can't-"

She swallows hard and strokes her thumb against his lips to silence him, brings her other hand to splay over his heart. "I don't - I don't know to do this right. For - for good."

"Kate. I just want you with me," he pleads, nudging a kiss to the corner of her mouth. "I'm already in, Kate. Come on in with me. The water's fine."

Something desperate and choked, something that could be like a laugh, bubbles up from her, bathes his ear where her lips hover over his skin.

"I shouldn't. . .I shouldn't, but I do."

"You do?" He can't understand her. He slides his hands around her waist, pulling her hips back against his.

"Yes, I do," she breathes, sliding her knee up his thigh and bringing her mouth to his, something like sorrow in her taste. "I do love you, Rick Castle."

* * *

><p>Love.<p>

She loves him?

She *loves* him.

The words split him open, a sharp-edged knife that severs him, leaves him numb, stunned, devastated in its wake.

She loves him.

It's not like he's never thought about this before – Kate Beckett's hypothetical feelings for him – but the truth is, he generally tries to *avoid* thinking about it, because his self-confidence has this deplorable habit of deserting him whenever he does.

He's spent the whole summer skirting the issue of Kate Beckett's feelings.

In case it might break him. In case it might definitely blow out the flickering, dying candle of his hope, leave him alone in the dark.

And now she's telling him –?

Even as his brain struggles with comprehension, Castle is still kissing her – or rather, she's kissing *him*, her tongue infinitely gentle along his lower lip, across the roof of his mouth. Kate, Kate.

His mind is swimming, spinning; he needs an anchor of some kind, something to tie him down, to connect him to the earth. Can she feel it? Kate abandons his mouth, puts enough distance between them so she can meet his eyes.

Her eyes are lovely, but he wants it all, her eyes and her warmth, the jut of her hipbones against his. He tries pulling her back into him; she resists, the makings of a smile illuminating her face, dispelling the clouds.

Her smile.

It breaks through like the shy, trembling sun of the winter months, that flames hesitantly and flirts with the horizon in the mornings, as if reluctant to face the cold, barren landscape.

It's so beautiful that Castle's heart clenches painfully. He almost forgot, almost forgot, intent on the siege as he was, bent on making her see what's there. He almost forgot what her smile is like.

Not the teasing smirk she saves for their banter, or the cynical sneer she sometimes gives her suspects.

Her little girl's smile, the awed, timid one, that dances at the back of her eyes before it even makes its way to her lips. The happy one.

She looks so young and peaceful, unburdened. Did he do that to her? Was it the whispered confession of her love for him, Richard Castle?

He wants to believe it.

His fingers, that have gone slack in his contemplation of her, curl around her waist again, tug demandingly; she comes. Her hands slide back from his shoulders to his neck, and she buries her smile into his neck, her breath fluttering across his skin like a butterfly.

"Kate," he says, and it's a wonder she can understand him at all, because the need and dizzying joy that swirl inside him turn the words into a growl.

He feels, more than he hears, the amused puff of air she lets out; she rubs her nose against his shirt. Adorable Kate.

And then she presses herself to him, every inch of her delicious body invading his senses. His lungs are a dead weight inside him. Sexy Kate.

"Rick," she breathes out after trailing her lips up to his ear. He wants to close his eyes, finds that it's already done. It's funny, how fast things can change. Only moments ago, he wanted nothing more than to push her up against the wall and brand her, his love a hot, burning iron; and now he's quite content just to hold her, savor her, her smell and her taste and her lean, graceful form.

"I love you," he hears himself say. Interesting, the way words seem to be leaving his mouth without having had any previous contact with his brain.

She stills against him. He holds his breath; but then she lets out a long sigh and surrenders, relaxes, her mouth at his chin. "I know."

She knows?

His mind is too hazy, too drunk with happiness to consider all the implications of her answer. Of course she knows. And it's a good thing she does, too, because obviously he's not fit to make speeches tonight, not fit to romance her.

He just wants to love her.

He opens his eyes again when Kate's lips desert his neck, and he is entranced. The light radiating off her is no longer shy, no longer hesitant; it's a triumphant blaze, so bright he has to blink.

All this for him?

Unbelievable.

"So...What's going to happen between them?" she asks, her fingers drawing relaxed, arousing patterns in his hair, at the nape of his neck.

What?

He must have said it out loud; she laughs, low and throaty. He almost whimpers; the need for her is back with a vengeance, pulling at his insides.

"What happens, for Nikki and Rook?" She whispers, her face alive with interest and desire. Playful.

It sparks something inside him. This is what he wants, what he's been longing for. Kate, light and teasing in his arms. This is who they are.

There has been enough darkness, enough suffering, when all he wants is to make her smile, make her laugh. He knows, he *knows* that he can make her happy, if given the chance. This is his goal tonight: that soft curve of her lips, the surprised look in her eyes when laughter spills without her consent.

And, well. He wouldn't mind eliciting a moan or two in the process.

"I'll show you," he says.


	6. Chapter 6

Kate sits in the chair in her room, knees drawn up, and watches the night city outside her window, letting the faint sense of panic at being so exposed come from the clear glass and open line of sight rather than the man in the bed behind her.

He could kill her. One shot to the heart.

She is not unaware of the irony.

Kate gets up and draws the shutters over the window, creating one less opportunity for paranoia. Now for the other one in the room, the other window into her living, beating heart.

Richard Castle sleeps in her bed. The longing to slide back into bed and draw his body over hers, warm and weighted, is crippling. She can't move to do it, but sitting alone in the darkness of her room is so very bleak, and pointless, that she hates herself for even submitting to the sabotaging impulse in the first place.

She's hopeless at this. She needs him and she's standing at the edge of the bed. Why? Why does she do this?

She needs him. So. Kate Beckett, what are you going to do?

With a crushing grip on her psyche, she unlocks her body from the cage of its panic and crawls back into bed, heart pounding. She wakes him a little, just enough, and his arm slides around her back and presses her against him, his eyes still closed, but trapping her in the bed. Thank goodness.

She expects a quickening of his hand, an invitation, but he just hums against her skin and sighs contentment. His left hand draws under her pillow to pull her just that much closer. He just. . .wants to hold her? She didn't expect that, though she should. It is Rick Castle.

Kate strokes her fingers along his jaw, kisses the side of his throat, his adam's apple, the hollow where his collarbones dips. Rick wakes a little more and rubs a hand up and down her back, slowly, opening his eyes.

"Still night?" he whispers, but it's raw and sex-filled, releasing an arrow of desire straight to her belly. Her hips rock towards his - entirely without her say so - and he grins. "Ahhha. . .you like-"

She smothers his words with her mouth, kissing away the smirk, leaving him breathless and awake. "Still night," she says finally.

Castle rubs her back with his palm, up and down, hypnotizing, brings his mouth back towards hers, gentle but entirely too erotic. He seems more intent on teasing her than actually doing anything about the arousal heating her blood, but she lets him touch, lets him skim the sides of her breasts and hover his lips over her skin, barely there kisses to her chest, her shoulder, the column of her throat, the sweep of her jaw.

Her mouth gulps air, her fingers curl around his back, her body arching towards his.

Just when it's all too much, too good, Rick pulls away, brushes his hand along her cheek, smooths her hair back from her face. She opens her eyes, trying to breathe again, and he grins at her.

"You squeaked."

She blinks to clear the haze from her vision. "What?"

"Like a mouse. Like one of those squeeze toys for a dog."

"I did not." She narrows her eyes at him, her heart still pounding. "And doesn't that make you the dog?"

He grins wider. "Yeah, you did. Squeak, squeak. More than once."

"I don't squeak, Castle."

"It was cute," he insists, drawing her closer. His lips come to her jaw, mouth hot on her skin, before he chuckles. "I've never heard that sound from you before. It's sexy."

Oh jeez, just that voice in her ear, the rumble that vibrates her bones and curls in her belly. She can't even care about the stupid squeak, not when his fingers trail fire up her thigh, his voice caressing her, his mouth heading down to meet his hands.

Suddenly, his lips flatten against her chest and blow a raspberry against her skin. She shrieks and curls around him, laughing, twisting away from the fingers feathering against her sides.

Kate grabs his ears and shoves his head away from her, gasping with laughter, trying to squirm away from him. He shakes her off and lays over her, pinning her down, trapping her hands over her head.

Her laughter fades as she opens her eyes, blinking through breathlessness, and she sees his gorgeous face over her, cracked open with joy.

"Rick," she breathes, struck by it.

"That was a squeak if I ever heard one."

She grins and tugs against his hands circling her wrists; he lets her go and she wraps her arms around his neck, lifts her head to steal a kiss.

She pulls back only slightly, nudges his nose with hers. "That was a shriek. Not a squeak. No more tickling, Rick Castle."

"You can't lay down rules like that. Not without asking me first. What if I said, No more moaning? You'd be in trouble, wouldn't you-"

She surges up and flips him over, easily, laughing into his shocked face. "Shut up, Castle."

"Another rule?" he pouts but she sees the flicker of a smile at the back of his eyes, the craftiness lurking there. In a moment, he's used her distraction to capture her mouth, his teeth tugging her bottom lip. He pulls her down against him, chest to chest, gentles his kiss, draws the corner of her mouth into his. His hand drifts, flickering fire down her spine, lower, then opens her up.

She moans, eyes slamming shut.

"Ah-ah, no moaning, Kate," he murmurs.

She laughs, breathless, her laughter dissolving into a gasp. When she manages to open her eyes, he's watching her, intent and proud and fierce.

He makes her fall apart without warning.

* * *

><p>Rick opens his eyes to the morning.<p>

Turns his head. Breathes in.

Kate.

She grins at him. Her hand slides across the space between them; her finger brushes his nose. "Hi," she whispers.

He thinks his heart will break, there is so much, too much.

"H-hey." Here she is. "Kate."

Her thumb skirts his chin. "Is this where I say you rocked my world?"

Rick laughs and circles her wrist lightly with his fingers, drags his hand up her forearm. "Only if it's true. Though we both know it's true."

Her lips widen, her eyes dazzling. "Oh, really? Then it goes unsaid."

He cups her elbow in his palm, then scrapes the back of his hand up her tricep to her shoulder, pressing flat against her scapula. She smiles broadly at him, a question in her eyes.

So Rick pulls her in. "Too much goes unsaid."

He tastes her lips, deepens to taste her mouth, sex and stale breath all. She hums, her fingers curl at his jaw, and he breaks the kiss to play with the hair at the nape of her neck, watch her eyes drinking him in.

In bed, the morning light cascading over them, two together.

"I love you."

* * *

><p>Rick starts the shower, sticking his hand in the spray to feel the temperature. Kate brushes her lips against his shoulder blade, his skin shivering. She crowds close but doesn't touch more than her mouth to one spot at a time, her heat between them.<p>

When it gets hot enough she follows him in; they are wordless, soap and shampoo and fingers slipping. She laughs at him when he stumbles into the wall, the cold tile bringing goose bumps to his skin. She laughs and presses her mouth to his sternum, bringing warmth with her, backing him up against that same wall, having her way with him.

He likes it. He likes seeing Kate naked, of course, but more, he likes seeing her *naked* in front of him, all that happiness building up behind the dam in her eyes and flooding out of her. He can see all around them the high-water mark, where that flood has crept up to, and the way it fills up between them, higher and higher. He would gladly drown in it.

When he wraps the towel around her shoulders, rubs briskly, she slides a few fingers around the ends to hold on. From under her eyelashes, she gives him that little girl smile again, bright and adoring. She - she adores him? Wow. He can see it. He's not sure he deserves that, not sure he can live up to it, but he will spend his whole life trying.

She lifts onto her toes and kisses his bottom lip; his breath catches in his throat. He has to hold on to her to keep standing.

He needs her again, like a sharp ache. He shivers with the cool air drying the water on his back, keeps still to prolong the agony of need, his heart thundering for more. She must see it on his face, or feel the tension under her mouth, because she grins against his cheek.

"Rick."

He can't help himself. He needs her again.

Especially when she says his name like that.

* * *

><p>"Can we talk?" he says, watching from the floor as she slides clothes out of her closet. She flicks a look back at him, pauses, her lip pulled in between her teeth. He's got his legs spread out in front of him, his back against the bed, boxers and tshirt on, his hair still damp from the shower. He sort of. . .sank to the floor when she started to get dressed, and he hasn't found the will to look away.<p>

"Yes," she says, in only underwear and a bra, sauntering closer to him. "But you keep looking at me like that, and I won't want to do any talking."

Oh. Oh, yeah. He claims her waist when she straddles him, meets her mouth for a crushing kiss.

He has - had - things to say. But her hot body batters at his. He-

She pulls back, wicked grin on her face. "What did you want to talk about?"

"That's not fair," he groans, gulping for breath, closing his eyes and tilting his head up. Except why close his eyes? Such a beautiful sight-

She lifts up; he feels her go. "If you're gonna get clean clothes, we need to leave in fifteen minutes."

"Damn. I could-"

She kicks at his feet. "No, Castle. I'm tired of smelling myself on your shirt."

He grins. "I'm not."

"Stand up. Get dressed. You can stare all you like, if you'll just get moving." She reaches down for his hands to help him up; he grasps hers and for a moment, the balance between them is too perfect, timeless, and he stays poised there, half up and half down, the two of them suspended.

And then he's on his feet and she brushing her fingers at his waist and throwing him his jeans. They do smell rather ripe. They smell like her apartment too. And sex. And love, he adds happily, pulling them on.

* * *

><p>In the cab, she fiddles with his fingers, tracing her nails around his knuckles, up the path of a vein, then smooths his skin with her thumbs. This is a different Kate. This is a happy Kate. Relaxed in the seat beside him, a little absent-minded as she stares out the window, playing with his hand, that half-smile on her face, like she has an amazing secret.<p>

Him. *He* is the amazing secret. Damn.

He leans in and kisses that bare spot just behind her ear, breathes in the scent of her hair. He likes that she smells like them. The scent of cherries and musk, a combination of a shower together and a night of love.

She brings her hand up to brush his cheek. "What did you want to talk about?"

"I don't know. You kinda wiped it clean out of my head."

She smiles, turns her head to look at him. "It's hard to have a conversation with you when you look like you just rolled out of my bed."

"I did," he agrees happily. Everything should have 'happily' tacked onto the end of it today. "I did just roll out of your bed."

"You did," she says softly, her eyes soft, her hand on his cheek soft, her body soft. Everything she does today will have 'soft' added to the mix; he can already tell.

He brings his lips to that spot again. "But."

"But?"

"Tonight can we roll into my bed?"

She laughs and pecks his cheek, which is entirely not good enough; Rick captures a deeper kiss, dominating her with the swipe of his tongue, and she squeezes his ear, brings him closer. Not ear-twisting, exactly, but still her commanding, demanding insistence he do as she asks.

When she breaks from him, she's a little breathless, and laughing, her forehead against his. "Tonight we can roll into your bed. Is. . .your family-?"

"They'll be home." Happily.

She watches him, some of that softness imbued with a new meaning. "Is this one of the things you wanted to talk about?"

"No." He shakes his head and feels her skin against his forehead, smiles again.

She pulls back, strokes a finger down the side of his face. "Okay. So. I can. . .I just show up? And stay?"

"Yes." Is Kate blushing? Interesting.

"Okay."

He wraps his hand around hers and leans back against the seat; she laces their fingers together, rubs his thumb with hers.

"Will they - will they be at your place now?"

"Yes. Well, Mother will be. Alexis gets to school early." He turns and looks at her profile. Still soft, joyful, like he's given her a gift. Of what? His home? "Is this a big deal?"

She laughs and turns to look over at him. "Well, yes. It is. But you seem to have no idea."

"I've spent three nights in your bed, Kate. They already know."

She *is* blushing, trying to smother a little bit of laughter that sounds breathless. "Okay. Well. Yes."

He grins back. "I love you. They know that."

She nods slowly, her eyes dark and thoughtful, but still limned with happiness. "Yeah. You kinda. . .haven't been quiet about that, Castle."

Is she upset by that? No. No, she looks. . .a little proud. A little overwhelmed, a lot happy. Yeah, 'happily' is a good word for today.

"You knew," he remembers. His hand drifts up to her face, his fingers hovering at her temple, her hairline, his thumb at her cheek. A mirror of his touch the morning of the Captain's funeral, when his life shattered apart with the flare off a rifle scope.

For a second, the face he sees is that face from his memory, bathed in sunlight and pain, sunlight and hopelessness, but the image resolves, adjusts, and it's sunlight again, but certainty, sunlight and peace, sunlight and acceptance.

She takes his hand, brings it down, squeezes his fingers sharply, pulling him from memories. "I knew. I know." She looks almost apologetic, but what does she have to be sorry for? "I kinda thought I'd. . .have time to adjust. But." She shrugs, still with that half-smile on her face. "Here we are."

"Good," he says back, smiling at her in relief. "Because keeping me quiet about this? It's a lost cause."

* * *

><p>Castle unlocks the door and pushes it open as softly as possible. It's too close to seven for his daughter to still be here; she likes to get to school eary and study or hang out with friends. But it's possible his mother is up-<p>

"Ha, so who's doing the walk of shame now, kiddo?" his mother crows, sweeping from the kitchen into the living room with her hand raised in either mazel tov or moral victory.

When Kate steps slowly into the foyer from the hallway, his mother's face is priceless. Castle glances back to Kate, sees the shy smile flirting with her lips, and he takes her hand, tugging her into his apartment.

"No shame here," Castle says to his mother. "What's to be ashamed of? I gotta get some clothes."

He moves towards his room and feels Kate's hand clutch at his; he stops and turns around. She has her bottom lip in her teeth.

Martha waves her hand at them. "Don't mind me. I was just having some orange juice and going over the class schedule. Go, go."

As soon as his mother turns back to the kitchen, Kate crowds him, nudging him back to his bedroom. Castle lifts an eyebrow at her and moves. "What's this about?"

"You got to stare at me. My turn."

His bark of laughter echoes in the hall as he stares at her, momentarily caught off-guard. Here he thought he was dealing with a momentarily shy Katherine Beckett; he should've known better.

This might actually be horny Kate Beckett. Or amused. Or naughty. He likes that one too.

Castle starts tugging his shirt off before he even gets to the bedroom, feels Kate's fingers at his lower back, then swears he feels her lips ghosting over his shoulderblade, can't help the shiver that crawls up his skin.

"Jeez, Kate. I thought you said we only had-"

"I padded our time," she says, using her knuckles to shove him towards his room. "Just in case."

They cross the threshold and she shuts the door behind them, then turns and faces him. While he can see laughter in her eyes, there's something deadly serious in the gaze she levels on him.

"Take it off, Castle."

Yes. Yes, ma'am.


	7. Chapter 7

Her day isn't all sunshine and rainbows like it would be in any soap opera; it's a normal day. Coffee, murder board, theories. She even gets to chase down a suspect, a guy who dealt drugs with Boyd back in the day, and has been seen with him quite a lot lately.

Looks like Castle might have been right.

So, yeah, a normal day.

Except, Kate would be lying if she said she didn't feel a little lighter, that her job wasn't a little easier. Even the interrogations, even the dead-ends they hit can't get that inner smile off her heart.

And every time she turns, she sees that smile reflected in his eyes.

It feels so incredibly good, seeing him struggle to contain his happiness, and not his misery. it's taken her so long, to realize exactly how much it means to her.

Richard Castle's happiness.

She's still trying to put a lid on her own emotions, of course, trap them inside before they can escape, the warm fuzziness and the swirling...love. She has to call it what it is, right? Love.

The word sounds a little strange in her head, like it's rusty from the lack of use. Love.

She can do this. She's not going to run. Yes, she is scared. Scared of mysterious shooters, scared that Castle will break her heart, scared that she can never give her mom –

Oh, that hurts.

But she can control those fears. She can accept them, deal with them, move away from their cold, disabling grip. Move forward.

She can; she will.

This thing with Castle is too good for her to ruin it now.

She's made her choice, whether she wanted it or not. She made her choice when she invited him up and then backed him up against the door, took his lips, took *everything*.

Too late to go back.

"Want some coffee?"

Her head swivels, and her thoughts fall to the side when she finds him standing in front of her, holding his empty cup along with hers.

Joy has a very different way from grief of squeezing her heart tight.

"Uh, sure."

He doesn't move, though. An amused grin emerges on his lips as he tilts his head at her, and she arches an eyebrow.

"What's that smile for?" He asks, his voice low, too gentle.

Smile? She's not smiling. Is she smiling?

"Just – get me the damn coffee, Castle."

She'll never understand how anyone can look so delighted at getting rebuffed.

"Yes, your majesty," he mock-bows, before turning his back to her. Her eyes fall on her father's watch; she has to do a double-check.

"Castle, wait."

Six thirty already, huh?

The writer comes trotting back, mumbling things about people who can't make up their minds. It's... sort of cute.

Oh, he has her, doesn't he?

"Don't you want to go home?" Kate asks, nodding at the clock on the wall. Clouds bank up in his blue eyes; she is familiar with the stubborn frown that comes with those.

What's wrong with him?

"I'm not going home until you do," he declares adamantly, and then he drops his voice to a merely audible level, intended just for her. Only Richard Castle can make a murmur sound both childish and determined. "Until you come home *with me*."

Ah, right. Her mistake. She lets her smile ripple on her face, lets him see her. All of her.

"Who said I wasn't coming?"

His eyebrows arch, jaw falling open. The desire to kiss him, to erase that brittle look from his face, shoots through her, almost irresistible. But this is the precinct.

It doesn't have to be, though.

The hesitant pleasure flickering at the back of of his eyes finishes convincing her. Kate stands up, pushes her chair back, stretching to ease her back muscles. Then she grabs his coat, flings it at him, and shrugs on her own.

"Come on, Castle. Let's call it a day."

The too-eager look on his face doesn't irritate her like it once did.

On the contrary. It makes her want to trap him between her and a wall, a bed, anything, and flick her tongue at his throat –

Yeah. Later.

And that very thought – _later_ – is what has her ducking her head to hide a smile as she gets into the elevator.

* * *

><p>When the cab pulls over in front of Castle's building, Rick gets out first, extends a hand for her. She takes it, and there's something about the gesture, something about the simple act of closing her fingers around his without so much as thinking about it, that sends a rush of pure warmth to her belly.<p>

It's amazing, what small things can do to her.

What they've been doing to her all day.

She follows him into the elevator, and when the doors close, the writer turns his blue eyes to her, intense, searching. Searching for what? Uncertainty? An indication that she's changing her mind?

Kate stares back, holds her ground firmly. She's doing this. It may have taken her three months to get here, but she's not running now. She must look convincing enough, because a slow smile stretches Castle's lips, contentment flooding his eyes.

He hooks an arm around her neck, pulls her into him; she staggers a little at the unexpected move, puts an hand to his bicep to steady herself. His lips brush her forehead, her temple, the corner of her mouth.

She half-expects a searing kiss – elevator fantasy and all that – but he surprises her by resting his check against her hair, his thumb drawing lazy circles on her forearm.

She shivers; it's a good thing that the elevator doors glide open at that moment, because she's not sure what she would have done next. And there are cameras everywhere in his building.

"What are you thinking about, detective?" He asks as he leads her along the corridor, a sly look in his eyes.

So he can read her mind. That's just *great*.

"You," she answers very naturally, priding herself on the way his eyes darken, linger on her.

He has his keys in hand, halfway to the keyhole, but he doesn't move to open the door. He just stares at her, devours her with his blue gaze, takes a step forward –

And then the door of the loft swings open.

"– and I'll be back in just – oh, hello, Richard," Martha goes on smoothly, not a hint of surprise showing on her face as she takes in the scene, her son, whom she almost ran into, standing frozen in front of the door, and Kate leaning against the wall, no more than three feet away.

"And Kate," the actress adds, a pleased note to her voice.

"Hi, Martha." _Again._ Beckett is grateful that the woman is the least judgmental person she's ever met; in any other circumstances, she might feel slightly uncomfortable.

"I was just going to buy sour cream, because Alexis is missing some for the pasta she wants to make. I'll be swift as an arrow," Martha says with a smile, and Kate can see where Castle got his taste for drama.

Martha disappears in a swirl of red hair and yellow dress, and then Castle is tugging Kate inside, his hand a little possessive around her wrist. He leaves her no time to second-guess herself.

"Alexis? I'm home," he calls, a happy smile playing on his face. "Kate's with me."

She wasn't nervous until now, but suddenly the detective can feel a ball of anxiety forming in her stomach. She hasn't seen Castle's daughter in... Yeah. A long time.

The teenager drops whatever she was doing in the kitchen to come and wrap her father in a fierce hug. Kate finds herself wondering if this is a statement, or if Alexis has simply missed her dad. If it's the latter... Guilt adds to the concern in her belly, weighs her down.

"Hello, Alexis," she finally says when the girl lets go of Castle.

The redhead smiles at her, but Kate can see the diffidence in her blue eyes, the wariness. _I don't know if you're going to hurt my dad again._ _I don't know if I can trust you._

All of it she can understand; but it doesn't mean she is impervious to it.

"Hi, Kate."

At least it's Kate, not Detective. Alexis's clear gaze rests on her, lingers on her torso. What is she seeing? Blood? A dark police uniform?

"How's school?" Kate asks, exactly at the same time as the girl inquires, "Are you all right now?"

They share an awkward little laugh, while Castle himself disappears into his study with a flimsy excuse – something about calling his publisher.

"I'm fine," Beckett assures at last, opening her arms as if it could vouch for her good health.

Alexis nods, her young face too solemn. Kate hates to think of this, hates to think that the girl was there, watching her get shot. Watching her own father jump in front of Beckett, trying to save her life and risking his own. Damn it, Castle.

"School is...good. Busy."

The detective doesn't know what to say to that. She almost asks about Ashley and Stanford, but she's not sure she has a right to. Does her three-month silence allow her to ask this sort of question?

Alexis heads back to the kitchen, and Kate follows, albeit hesitantly.

"Do you...need help?" She asks, leaning on the countertop, watching the girl pull out a dish out of the oven. It looks like chicken, with some sort of...Indian sauce? It's red, and smells delicious.

"I'll be fine, thanks."

Beckett bites on her lower lip, tries not to feel rejected. Where's Castle where you need him? She flicks her eyes to his office door, still closed and silent.

Is he deliberately giving her some time alone with his daughter? Time to fix the mess she's made?

She sighs. Deliberate or not, she should probably take the chance she's offered.

"Alexis," she starts, weighing her words. The girl has her back to her, rinsing some spoon she's used, and it's almost easier this way. "I want to – I want to apologize."

A beat of silence.

"I'm not the one you should be apologizing to."

Oh. Okay. The sound of the water running stops, but Alexis doesn't turn away from the sink.

"I...I took care of that," Kate assures softly, wishing the teenager would face her now.

Her wish is granted, but the hard edge in the girl's blue eyes makes her stomach sink.

"Took care of, really? That's how you talk about my dad?"

Kate opens her mouth – to say what, she has no idea – but Alexis quickly backpedals, shakes her head in embarrassment, "I'm sorry, I just..."

"No, no. Alexis. You have a right to be mad."

Even though it hurts. More than Beckett would have imagined. A curtain of red hair shades the young Castle's eyes as she lowers her head, takes a deep breath.

"I know... I know you have your reasons?" She says, giving the detective a look that's almost apologetic. "And. I know you've been through a lot, and I can't imagine... But Dad – Dad's been through a lot, as well. I'll never forget it, Kate. I'll never forget his face, when we got to the hospital –"

Alexis stops suddenly, stares at her feet with a stubborn frown. Kate knows this for what it is, an attempt at pushing back tears. Kate can't help herself; she reaches for the girl, her hand brushing against Alexis's shoulder before she drops it again – she has no right – she can't –

But Castle's daughter intercepts her hand before it's back to her side, squeezes it into hers.

"I need to know. I need to be sure," she explains, pleads, her blue eyes transparent and honest as she raises them again.

Kate's breath catches in her throat.

She can see now why Castle always has so much trouble saying no to his little girl.

"And I *know* it's none of my business," Alexis starts again, running a nervous hand through her hair.

"I love him," Beckett interrupts, her voice raw, squeezed tight.

The girl looks up in wonder, in disbelief. The expression is so much like Castle's that Kate's heart thuds painfully, but Alexis is a little more eager to believe, a little more innocent than her father – on her face it quickly morphs into wild hope.

"You do?"

"I do."

The teenager nods slowly, a shy, relieved smile curving her lips. Her hand presses Kate's once more before it lets go.

"Okay," she says quietly.

"Are you sure?"

The last thing Beckett wants is to upset the life of this girl more she has already. But Alexis only grins wider, a hint of mischief making her blue eyes even more similar to her father's.

"You make him happy."

She what now? Kate's eyes turn once more to the study Castle has fled to, then focus again on his daughter's face. His daughter's sly, delighted face.

She doesn't know what to say.

"Does he..." Alexis hesitates. "Does *he* make you happy?"

Oh. The detective's heart flutters, torn between her growing emotion and the certainty that she doesn't deserve this. Any of this.

It's a struggle, to reach for words inside her, pull them out, past the knot in her stomach, past the desert of her throat.

"He does, Alexis. Your dad... I'm lucky, to have him in my life. I'm so very lucky."

If the girl's smile was sweet before, it's beautiful now, wide and infused with light. With this spontaneous, bright energy that she's always had, Alexis hugs Kate, a crushing hug, her arms tight on the detective's back.

"Good," she says, her voice muffled by Kate's shoulder.

But no. Good doesn't even begin to cover it.

* * *

><p>Castle doesn't know what Kate said to his daughter, but he's vaguely jealous of the striking results. He doesn't remember seeing Alexis so cheerful lately, not since Ashley left, and maybe not since the beginning of the summer.<p>

But she chats and jokes and laughs, his little girl, teaming with Martha to tell Kate the most embarrassing stories about him, and he's so stunned, so grateful, that he doesn't even think to protest.

After dinner, his mother sneaks off, saying she has to meet a potential investor – "suitor" is what Rick hears, what he reads in the cleverly camouflaged blush on Martha's cheeks. Alexis stays for a while longer, until Ashley calls, to be precise.

He watches his daughter's slim form vanish at the top of the stairs, tension bubbling inside him. He's been thinking about this all day, about that moment when he's finally alone with Kate, and there's... There's stuff she needs to know. He can't put it off any longer.

He's surprised when two arms – Kate's arms – circle his waist, and he feels her warm body at his back, her chin digging into his shoulder. Her lips ghosting his neck.

"She's amazing, Castle."

Amazing?

His daughter. She thinks his daughter is amazing.

He closes his eyes, willing this moment to last longer. To last forever.

But. She has to know.

"There's something you need to see," he says, regret blossoming in his chest as he detaches Kate's arms from him, turns to her. He wishes it was all fine, that he had done nothing wrong.

He wishes she could *think* that he had done nothing wrong –

"You're scaring me, Castle," she answers half-teasingly. But she must read the solemn look in his eyes because she grows serious, her smile slowly leaving her lips.

He's not going to say that she should be scared, but he *is* sort of thinking that.

"Let's go to my office," he says, trying not to sound mournful. But he's already lost that battle.

He sees the curious look Kate gives him, then sees her surrender and follow him; he wishes the whole night could be this easy. Thing is, he has absolutely no idea how she will react to this. That's who she is. Unpredictable.

Usually he finds that attractive, but tonight it puts him on edge.

He closes the door after her, leans against it, gathers his courage.

"Castle, if you're being theatrical again –"

The unvoiced threat barely covers the anxiety in her voice.

"I'm not," he swears. "I just – I have no idea how to even say this."

"Words, Castle. Words are always a good start."

He chuckles in spite of himself, opens his eyes again. The light in his office is soft; Kate's beauty glows in the dimness. He details those fine lines, the curve of the cheek, the angle of the jaw, the striking darkness of her eyes contrasting with her pale skin.

How he loves her.

"Rick," she urges quietly, concern spilling from her.

He sighs. "Yes."

His heart is heavy when he switches his fancy storyboard on, waits for the familiar image to appear. He loves that picture of Kate; it's Ryan who took it, some time before Montgomery's death, one night when they were all gathered at the Old Haunt.

He needed it, after the shooting. Needed that picture of a smiling, healthy Kate to erase the one of her in that hospital room, her face drawn, her eyes brittle and bright.

"Castle, what's this?"

He looks at her now, recovered, alive Kate (_very_ alive, if his memories of last night are anything to go by), and he wonders what the hell he's doing. Is he ready for her to go chasing after these people again?

But he can't lie to her either.

Not now, not with everything that has happened in the last three days.

"Touch the screen," he says.

She shoots him a reluctant glance, but she does step closer, and ultimately brushes her fingers against her own picture. She must know it's not Nikki Heat – he'd never use a picture of her for that. He's always kept the two separate.

He watches the murder board stretch out on the screen, tries to put himself in her shoes, see what she sees. He knows it all by heart now, dates, connections, alibis. From where he's standing, near the door, he only gets a quarter of her face. Enough to catch her mouth parting in surprise, the startled breath she sucks in.

"I..." He's not sure how to go about this, only knows he needs to fill the silence somehow. "This is what I've been working on, after Gates kicked me out? I haven't gotten really far, just –"

"And this is what you were so afraid to show me?" She turns back to him, incomprehension in her eyes.

He wishes.

"No," he admits. "There's more."

Kate shifts to face him fully. He'd rather she didn't; it's harder to focus when he's the center of her attention. Her entire, undivided attention.

"A few weeks ago –" he stops to count in his head; yeah, just three weeks ago – "I got this call. From – from a man who said he was a friend of Montgomery's."

Her shoulders tense a little, but other than that, she doesn't flinch.

"I don't even know his name," he continues, almost apologetic. "But apparently, the Captain sent him some files. Files that have to do with your mother's case, with the mob hits. That could hurt people."

He has to stop then, to gulp down some air, try to relax. Kate's eyes are still dark and intent on him.

"And?" Her voice is cutting, sharp-edged.

"He's been using those files to blackmail whoever's responsible, protect Montgomery's family. Protect *you*."

"Protect me."

"And the Montgomerys," he adds, trying to emphasize that it's not just her.

"In exchange for what?"

He looks at her; he doesn't think his face can express just how sorry he is.

"In exchange for *what*, Castle?"

"You had to stop digging," he confesses miserably.

In her silence, he realizes – the past tense was a mistake.

"Had to?" Comprehension – horror – strike her. Her arms fall to her sides. "This is why," she whispers in realization. "This is why you asked me to stop."

His heart clenches. "For now. Just for now."

But he can hear how paltry that is, how like an excuse it sounds.

"This is why. To. . .protect me."

He can't tell from her voice which one is winning, sorrow or anger. Maybe both. The sorrow scares him more than the anger. Anger he can take, anger means she's still with him. Sorrow is a closed door. "Well," he gulps. "Yes and no –"

"You should have told me," she interrupts, pale and cold like a statue. He wants to cup her cheek, breathe warmth back into her, feel her lean body arch into his.

"Kate..."

"You should have told me," she repeats, shaking her head, traces of betrayal on her beautiful face.

"I couldn't." He has nothing to offer her but the truth, the ugly, naked truth. "I'm selfish about you. I watched you die in that ambulance, Kate. I – I'm not exactly eager for it to happen again. And if I told you about this..."

He trails off and doesn't even know whether or not he should hope. Or what to hope for. His body leans towards her, wanting her to step closer, offer something-

"You knew I wouldn't stop," she answers softly.

She must be considering his words, mulling them over – he follows the thought process on her face, the delicate pulling of her lower lip between her teeth.

"Why are you telling me now?" She asks at last, head tilted, her gaze meeting his.

He shrugs, unsure how to explain. Except- "I can't keep it from you now," he offers in the end, trusting that she will hear everything he isn't saying.

She studies his face, her eyes unrelenting. He steels himself, straightens his spine, tries to put it all out there, the things left unsaid, all there in his open face.

"Did this. . .mystery man. . .did he say anything else?"

Castle shakes his head, watches her slowly absorb that information as well. He knows there should be more to say, something to make it better, but there's just not. He made an impossible choice; he will have to face the consequences.

She asks after a long pause: "Can't these. . .files. . .can't they expose these people?"

"I don't know," he's ashamed to answer.

She presses her lips together; her eyes dart away from his. "And you don't know his name?"

"No." Damn. Every question she's got, he doesn't have a good answer for.

"Phone number?"

"I tried that. A private number, untraceable, Ryan said." Oh, that might have been a mistake, mentioning Ryan. "Ryan didn't know what it was for. Just. A favor."

Kate closes her eyes, and he can see in the faint trembling of her mouth just how fragile, how breakable she is. The questions, the press of her lips, the lack of anger or emotion are just masks she uses to keep herself together, to keep from falling apart.

He can't resist any longer. He goes to her without thinking, pulls her into his embrace, his arms wrapping around her thin shoulders.

She lets him, but she doesn't hug back. "Castle."

"I'm sorry," he blurts out. "I'm sorry. I knew it was wrong to keep it from you, but –"

"You can't do this," she says, effectively undercutting his stammered apology.

"What?" Do what? He can't do what? Hold her?

She uses his surprise to disentangle herself from his arms; he doesn't let her stray far. Her eyes linger on the story-turned-murder board, come back to him.

"You can't be involved. This is. . .too dangerous. You're a father, Castle. You have people who-"

"I just said I was wrong to try and decide for you. And now you want to make that decision for me?" Flawed argument, Kate. No way. "I'm not going to just walk away from this." _From you_.

A glimmer of despair crosses her face. "You need to-"

"I need to be with you, Kate. I need to work with you, to help you through this. To help you find your mom's killer-"

"I never *asked* you to put your own family in jeopardy for me-"

"Of course you didn't. And who says my family is in jeopardy? You don't know that. The best way to keep my family safe is to catch the guy behind this. Find him and put him away so he can't hurt us anymore."

"Castle-" She shakes her head, tries to step back.

"And we will find him," he murmurs, promises, his hands gentle on her shoulders, trying to tug her back into him. "We will bring him to justice."

She shakes her head, her eyes turned away from him, her hair falling between them. "You can't promise that."

"I can promise to try." He wishes he could see her eyes.

"I don't *want* you to try." She's still struggling back, but she won't look at him, won't lift her head, and he's starting to fear what might be written on her face.

"Tough. I'm already here." Some of his frustration ripples the surface of his half-desperate entreaty. "I'm already in this. Mystery Guy called *me*, Kate. You couldn't get rid of me if you tried."

"Rick, I..." Finally, she lifts her chin to meet his eyes, leveling a shining gaze on him; she's not even trying to fight her tears anymore. It shakes him. "I *can't* - I can't have you get hurt, can't look at your dead body. That would shatter me - don't you get it?"

His mouth drops open, stunned.

"I can't. My mother, Roy, and then. . .if it were you?" She breaks off, bowing her head. "It would end me, Castle. God, I. No. Please, don't make me."

Her voice breaks.

Castle catches her up against him, his hands too rough, his touch not gentle enough, something in him crumbling and desperate to find her so undone.

"Shhh," he soothes, lulling her, rocking her, his eyes closed against the sudden choke of tears. He clears his throat and presses his mouth against the top of her head. "We'll be all right, Kate. We can do this. Together. We can do this."

He keeps murmuring those words, over and over, her hair so soft against his lips – and he doesn't stop until she believes him.


	8. Chapter 8

The room is dark except for the still-lit murder board. Kate stands before it, her fingers hovering above the screen, reading, letting it wash over her.

Castle is silent behind her, sitting like a stone in the chair in front of his desk.

She reads, but she doesn't want to. She wants to not know, wants to think there's still nothing but dead ends. But it's too late. Here it is.

"So." She swallows around the edges of this dark thing in her, thrashing awake. "This question mark here."

"I sent the number and the log from my phone to a guy I know."

He always knows a guy. "And?"

"He said he'd let me know. If he could."

"If he doesn't let you know?"

"It's someone. . .with a higher pay grade," he says softly.

"Then even silence is an answer," she replies.

"In a way."

"You don't want to talk about this," she sighs, then heads off his protest by moving back around the desk and sinking down, looking at him. "I don't either."

"I had to tell you."

"I know."

"At the risk of sounding like a five year old. . .are you mad at me?"

And he does look like one too. "No." She nudges his knee with hers, her back to the murder board. "I think I should be. But I'm not."

"But you are disappointed."

She meets his eyes but doesn't answer.

Rick sighs. "I didn't want to ruin this."

Kate leans forward and snags his hand off his thigh, squeezes it. "Nothing's ruined."

"You sure?"

"Not about much. But this? Yeah. I'm sure." She tries to smile at him, feels his hand warm under hers. "I still don't like you mixed up with this."

"Too late for that."

She needs him to understand. Needs him to protect himself, because she can't. She can't refuse his place at her side because she wants him at her side, wants him period. He needs to understand. "I talked to Alexis before dinner."

"I thought maybe you had," he says softly, smiling up at her. Gratitude.

She shakes her head. "You have to think about your family, Castle. Don't make me. . .don't put me ahead of that. Because I'm selfish enough to take it."

When she looks at him, his face is mercurial, his eyes storm-clouds as he stands up before her, the chair rocking back. "You *are* my family. Something happens to you, it happens to us. Me. Alexis. Mother. You're in this now, Kate. Even if you don't want to be."

She leans forward until her cheek presses against his ribs, feels his arms come around her, feels the terrible pounding of his heart.

"I want to be," she says, entirely without thinking. And then it's out there.

He leans back, touches his finger to her cheek, an entirely too-fatherly gesture for her. She brushes his hand away and stands up, giving herself the added edge of her height. Kate leans in until their hips are flush, until she can feel her ribs catching on his as he breathes, and then she runs her mouth over his jaw, lightly, barely there.

She feels his heart pick up its pace under her hand and she grins, letting her fingers curl into his waistband. "Let's not talk about this any more, Castle."

His hands brush her belly, the sides of her breasts, around her back to play with the hair at her neck.

"Who needs to talk?" he murmurs, his nose against her ear, his breath hot. She is liquid and running under his hands, quivering with every stroke, unable to take back control.

She gives up, feels herself crowding him, needing him, not caring that she does.

He breaks away from her, holding her from him, and she shivers at the distance, tries to focus her eyes again, see herself clearly.

"Let's take this somewhere. . .else," he says, dark eyes so intent on hers.

She nods, follows him through to his bedroom, stunned at being here, where she is, breathless from the way her body needs him, breathless at how her head is abandoning ship.

He kisses her again, touching her, bringing her body under his comamnd. She arches into his grip, feels his hand slide under her shirt, draw it up, his broad palm, his long fingers spanning the width of her ribs.

"Are we rolling into your bed now?" she whispers, finding laughter back in her voice.

"Mm-hm," he agrees.

"I can do that," she grins and lifts her arms over her head so he can pull her shirt off.

His eyes light up, tossing her shirt somewhere, and she laughs at him, tries to circle her arms around his neck. He catches at her forearms, draws away, his thumbs sliding to her palms as he holds her out. On display. Her skin rises with goosebumps.

"Castle," she admonishes, tugging on his grip.

"You're just. . .so beautiful." He pulls her hard into him. "And you're here."

The words burn, so good, a fire that licks at her whole body, destroys all obstacles, melts resistance.

"Don't let me be anywhere else," she murmurs, cradling his jaw, moving in to capture his mouth.

He makes it too tender, makes the touch too great, too much. Her body is alive with it, crawling with sensation.

"I love you," he says against her cheek, to her hair, the line of her ear. She shivers. "I love you, I love you."

"I know," she murmurs back, pressed so close, her teeth at his jaw. "I know. I love you too." And she hates how her voice catches on the word, like it might not come out of her mouth.

Castle steers her backwards, breaks apart from her mouth to let her lower herself to the bed; she slides towards the pillows. He watches her, then follows her down, his body heavy on hers.

"I meant it, Castle."

She shifts to accept his weight, curls a knee up alongside his hip. His head drops to brush a kiss to her mouth.

"I know."

"I want to be your family. We were a family before. . .even before this."

He kisses her again; she presses up into him, using her body instead of her words.

His tongue along her ear, his mouth busy. "At the 12th," he murmurs. "A family there. I want us to be a family here."

"Then here too," she answers, but anxiety flares. "Don't let me ruin this. Don't let me get away."

He laughs against her chest and raises his head. "Not likely now."

She grins back, gentled by the dark determination in his voice, curls her hands around his face. "Good."

"Now shut up, Kate. I'm trying to make love to you."

* * *

><p>Castle wakes up in his bed alone.<p>

He curls into her side - it will be her side from now on - and closes his eyes, smells her in the sheets. But her side is cold; she's been gone for awhile.

When he opens his eyes, he knows he needs to find her, make sure. . .just, make sure.

Don't let me get away, she said last night.

Rick slides out of his bed and rubs a hand down his face, then searches for his tshirt, but it's gone. He grabs a new one out of the dresser and pulls it on over his head, checks the bathroom.

No Kate.

He pads down the hallway, his bare feet cold against the wooden floor. A sliver of ice has lodged somewhere in his chest, but he still thinks, wants to hope, that Kate is just in his kitchen starting the coffee or toasting bread, that she is on her way back to him.

When he crosses the threshold, he sees her in the living room, standing in front of the windows that look out over the city.

He stands there a moment, silent, something terrible and amazing filling his chest, love and need both. Kate is silhouetted by the grey, pre-dawn light leaking through the glass, her shoulders sharp and thin in his tshirt. Her legs are a straight, lovely line to the floor.

"Kate?"

She shifts just enough to look over her shoulder at him, her face in profile, the dark shadows in the room making her inscrutable. Castle moves because he can't keep standing apart from her, with the cold, clear light between them.

She turns back to the windows as he approaches, but she does uncross her arms from her chest, then drops her hand next to his when he arrives at her side. He links their fingers, tries to fathom what's going through her mind.

But he has no idea. He wishes it were easier.

"I don't know how to do this," she says finally, and he can hear how thin, how reed-like her voice is in the morning light.

"How to hold my hand?"

"Don't be obtuse."

"That's a good word," he murmurs, because that hurt, and he knows she's just frustrated, she doesn't want to hurt him. He has to stall to keep the sting out of his voice. He clears his throat. "What don't you know how to do?"

He glances over at her just in time to see her suck in her cheek and start chewing on it. "Wake up with you in the morning. Stay over at your place. Say the right thing. Take your pick. All of it. I don't know how to do this. I think I've already done it wrong."

Yeah. Alone in front of the window isn't exactly doing it right.

She sighs at his silence, bows her head.

He doesn't like standing next to her, hearing her sigh, and not holding her. So he turns and pulls her into an embrace, breathing her in, comforted by the way her body fits to his, so naturally, everything lining up, like their bodies remember each other and move accordingly.

"Are you having second thoughts, Kate?"

"Yes," she whispers. "And third and fourth. And a hundred. But being in your living room, and not in your bed, was making me miserable. So how could I possibly leave now?"

He closes his eyes and holds her tighter, tries to hang on to the good parts of that statement. "I don't want you to be miserable. I just want to make you happy."

He hears the choking noise of her breath first, then feels the convulsion of her body, the way her hands grip him so tight. "I - that's what I'm afraid of. What if I can't be happy? What if it's not possible anymore?"

Oh God. He buries his face in her neck and tries to suppress the clawing need, tries to push it down. "I can make you happy, Kate. If you let me. Let me love you, and I can make you happy. I will spend my whole life making you happy-"

She wraps her arms up around his neck and presses her face against his; he can feel her cheeks wet against his skin. "I know, I know," she cries. "I know you will. I don't doubt you. It's me."

His clutching panic recedes just a little, and he can breathe again, feel her warm and apologetic against him. He lifts his head and watches her struggle to stave off tears. "Kate. Come back to bed with me. We'll start over. We'll do it right."

"What?"

He pulls back, brushes his thumbs over her cheeks. "Let's just have a do-over. Okay? Hit the reset button on this morning."

"Reset," she says softly, and her eyes find his with some hesitant hope.

"Yes. Reset. Come on. Back to bed." Castle grabs her hand and tugs toward the hall, leading her away from the windows. "We'll just do it until we get it right."

Kate doesn't say anything but she follows him to his bedroom, crowding into his back as he stops by the bed. Her shoulder brushes his spine and her hand is at his waist as if to say _What now?_

"Get back in bed, Kate," he murmurs and tugs at her hand as he lays down, sliding back under the covers.

She pauses, keeping her distance, her eyes filled with uncertainty. Then she chews on her lip and puts her knee on the bed. "Scoot over."

He grins wider and opens his arms instead; she rolls her eyes at him but slides down into his embrace, close, her heart beating a little too fast.

"Castle?"

"Wait. Just. . .wait here for a moment." He curls his arm around her back and closes his eyes, tries to recapture the feeling of drifting on the outskirts of sleep. She slowly eases against him, her tension melting into the warmth of the bed, her head coming to rest just under his chin.

For a few minutes, he really does doze a little, letting his mind wander away from the dawning day, away from the woman who stood at the windows and didn't know if she could be happy.

He *can* make her happy.

Her fingers begin tracing soft patterns against his chest, awareness returning, and he lets the hand on her back do the same, skimming the lines of her muscles as they relax.

"Morning," he says, his voice rough with gratitude.

She hums. "Morning."

Her hand moves between them and she brushes her fingers across her own neck, then tugs on the collar of her tshirt, slips it down. Her finger strokes lightly over a spot at her neck, her eyebrow raises.

"What?" he whispers, leaning over her a little to kiss the soft line of her jaw. She angles her head into him, fingers around the back of his neck now.

He gasps when she bites him, laughs, and opens his eyes again. "What was that?" He's so glad to see the smile on her face, to see her really and truly trying it all over again. Reset.

"You gave me another hickey. So I figure you deserve a bite."

"A lovebite," he grins, easing back to look at her neck. "Where?"

She tilts her head and he sees the red mark at her jaw, brushes his thumb across it. He remembers doing that the other night. "Proof. So you couldn't deny it." Claiming her.

Kate growls and moves in for his ear, teeth bared. Castle laughs and darts back, accidentally pulling her over with him. He falls onto his back with Kate on top of him, her teeth at his ear.

"And I have one on my shoulder from our first night."

His skin ripples at the sound of her voice, intimate and growling, at the words she says. "Our first night I was a little bit afraid of what you'd do if I marked you where everyone could see."

"You should be afraid." She nips his earlobe, tugs. He runs his hands up and down her back, ready to play. "I also have one on the back of my neck-"

"You bent your head forward and I could't let it go. The ridge of your spine. . ." He trails off, closes his eyes with that mental picture, remembers the feel of his body draped over her back, and feels her laughing over him now, and then her teeth at his neck. He wonders if she's just throwing herself into their reset, if she's putting more effort into it than she might, hoping to distract them both from the specter of the woman at the window.

"And there's one more," she whispers, breaking his train of thought.

One more. Oh. "Yeah."

"You know where it is?"

"Only one? I thought I left two more."

She nips at his jaw, moves down his chest, her hands trailblazing. He jerks and opens his eyes, tries to control the way his body responds to her. But it's a lost cause.

Kate lifts her head, arches an eyebrow, her chin settling against his hipbone. "My inside thigh, Castle."

He grins and lifts up on his elbows. "You gonna reciprocate?"

She glances at his thighs with a speculative look, drags her finger up the line of his quads, nudges his shirt up to expose the plane of his stomach, then ducks her head to brush her lips over his skin. His body flinches.

He pants and leans his head back, tries not to hyperventilate, then glances back down at her, has to see her doing this.

Kate grins and lifts off of him, slides out of bed. "Nah. Don't feel like it. I want some coffee."

"You are a terrible, terrible woman Kate Beckett." He jumps up after her, tripping on his shoes, following her out of his bedroom, trying to catch up with her.

She stops suddenly in the threshold of the living room; he collides into her back.

"Alexis," she says breathlessly.

Oops. Kate's wearing his shirt. And nothing else. He laughs as she shifts backwards, and then he steps in front of her to face his daughter.

Alexis is blushing and laughing at them. "Um. Hi."

"Morning, daughter," Castle says formally, bowing his head. He uses a hip to bump Kate back. "Kate's gonna put on some clothes."

"Castle," she hisses at him. He turns his head and watches her glare at him over her shoulder as she heads back for his bedroom.

He joins Alexis in the kitchen and kisses her head. "Was that too awkward for you?"

"Me? What about Kate?" she says, pushing on his arm.

"Kate'll get over it."

"I'll never get over that," Alexis says with a grin. "I don't want to get over it. Is Kate. . .staying with us?"

"Is that a subtle way of asking if she's moving in?"

Alexis pulls milk out of the fridge and gives him a look. "No. But. . .is she moving in?"

Castle sighs. "I wish." Then he frowns and straightens up. "You know I'd ask you first, right?"

She rolls her eyes and pours milk over her cereal. "I know. You wanna ask me now? Get it out of the way in case it comes up?"

Castle laughs and wraps his arm around her shoulders. "Thanks for the vote of confidence, sweetheart."

"Because my answer is yes," she continues, pulling open the silverware drawer. "In case you wanted to know."

Caste lifts an eyebrow, catches sight of Kate coming through the living room. "I'll keep that in mind."

"Should I ask her instead?" Alexis says, spooning cereal into her mouth and crunching it. She swallows and says into his stunned silence, "If I were a little kid, I'd be kinda irresistible. But I bet I could still work it."

He laughs right as Kate comes into the kitchen wearing boxers and a tshirt. His. Both his. Because, yeah, it's not like she has any clothes here.

"You need to leave some clothes here, Kate," he says.

She throws him a dark glance, a combination of arousal and anxiety he thinks. "We'll talk about that." She heads straight for his coffeemaker. "I got up early and set it to brew. That okay?"

"Course," he answers, ignores that her setting the cofeemaker was when she was trying not to run away. He ignores that because she's here now. She's trying.

Alexis takes her cereal and sits at the bar.

Castle watches his daughter for a moment, _he has her permission,_ then glances back to Kate. "When we go by your apartment this morning, pack a bag."

Kate shoots him a look, her eyes darting to Alexis, her hand holding out a mug to him, fixed to his liking.

Castle shrugs and takes the coffee. "Alexis says you should move in. I'm trying to start small."

Kate's head swivels to Alexis; his daughter grins adorably and shrugs at her. "Sometimes Dad needs a little nudge."

Castle looks back at Kate and finds her standing immobile in the middle of his kitchen, her coffee almost forgotten in her hand.

"Kate." He reaches out and takes a fistful of her shirt - his shirt - and tugs her closer. "Don't freak out on me."

She shakes her head. "Not. Just." She shrugs, her eyes not focused on his, on anything.

"Drink your coffee, detective."

She puts the mug to her lips automatically, sips the liquid. Then she sighs and puts it on the counter, glances once at Alexis, then back to him. "Actually. Yeah. I'll. . .pack some things in a bag when I get to my place."

"For. . .the weekend?" he asks, struggling to keep a victory cry from bursting out of his throat.

She nods. "For the weekend." She turns her head to glance at his daughter. "If that's okay with you?"

Alexis lifts her hands and smiles. "Not my call. But yeah. It's more than okay with me."

Castle reaches out and grabs Kate by the hips, tugging her into his embrace. "You're gonna stay with me all weekend," he grins.

"Yeah," she says, laughing up at him, pressing a quick kiss to his cheek.

"You love me," he teases, kissing her back, capturing her mouth just long enough to make him want more. Much much more. And an empty apartment.

"Yeah, that too," she murmurs, pushing on his shoulders.

"You wanna move in with me," he says back, his arms loosening a little around her lower back. "Admit it."

She laughs - laughs! - and brushes her hands down his biceps, curls her fingers around the back of his elbows. "Okay, fine. I give up. That too."

His mouth drops open, a flash of excitement leaving him frozen in place, his arms locked around her.

She grins at him, pats him fondly on the chest. "Now drink your coffee, Castle."

_Yes_. Yes ma'am.

* * *

><p><strong>Authors' Notes:<strong>

**Sandiane Carter:** I don't know what to say, except that working with Chezchuckles is *so* much fun that I'm not sure it should be legal. And writing Siege, especially, has been this amazing, _amazing_ experience, and I'm sad that it's over. But do not fear, oh, lovely reader: it's only the end of this particular story - our collaboration is nowhere near done. ;)

**chezchuckles:** I sooo love doing this. When SC and I write a story together, we feed off each other's scenes. She'll send me her chapter and I just grin like crazy. She's so good, isn't she? With this story in particular, I had all this angst after the premiere and I wrote these two or three awful scenes, and then just dumped them all on SC and made her fix it. She came up with Castle's siege of Kate's heart. And I think it's worked. (Also? It's SO her fault they slept together. I'd *never* have let them. But once they did? Oh. Wow. They couldn't stop. lol) So thanks SC, for being entirely too awesome, and thank you all for reading.


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